


febuwhump 2021 prompt fills

by thanksroach (irnhero)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: FebuWhump2021, Individual tags on each prompt, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 27,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irnhero/pseuds/thanksroach
Summary: Prompt fills for Febuwhump 2021; prompt and additional tags will be listed at the top of each chapter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 87





	1. shadows

**Author's Note:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 1: mind control  
> tags: mind control, accidental injury, hurt/no comfort

It’s...

It’s dark. Dark and cold with a sour taste in the air.

Geralt doesn’t know how he came to be here. He was in the woods, he was in a cottage, and now it’s dark. His heart thumps too quickly in his chest, his lungs heave but he feels breathless all the same. He turns left, then right, then left again, searching for something, searching for an enemy…

_ There!  _

An inky black shadow approaching from the darkness. It stills beneath his gaze, long spindly appendages raised at him. He raises his blade. 

Then the shadow steps towards him. He shouts, he thinks, warning it to stay back, but it doesn’t heed him. It steps closer. 

Geralt hears something, a rumble, too low and muffled to make out coming from the shadow. It steps closer. He hears it again. He raises his blade higher. It steps closer.  _ Rumble _ .

He strikes the shadow, bringing his blade down upon it and slashing it deep. It rumbles again, higher and louder in an unnatural cry, and stumbles back, crumpling in a black heap. He raises his blade again.

A high-pitched laugh, clear as day rings in his ears. Geralt spins towards the piercing sound to see another shadow, smaller but no less imposing. The shadow laughs again and starts to circle him, leading him back around to the other wounded shadow.

“Despair, Witcher, and do not cross me again,” says the shadow.

And just like that, in an instant, the shadow disappears into the air leaving its companion behind. He hears the rumble, weaker this time. The darkness begins to lift, revealing grass under his feet and trees around him. The rumble comes again, but clearer. Something closer to a word.

_ Rumble. _

_ Rum… _

_ “Geralt” _

The darkness disappears, leaving blue skies and sunshine in its wake. He shakes his head, clearing the last of the fog from his mind. He looks down at the shadow and his stomach drops like a stone. It isn’t a shadow at all.

“Geralt, please…”

_ Jaskier _

~

The candles burn low by the time the healer finally takes her leave. He’ll live, she says. He needs his dressings changed regularly and a few week’s rest, but he will live.

All while she worked, Geralt did nothing but pace about the room, and then in the hall when she grew tired of him. There was much to do; clean his swords, polish his armor, unpack his belongings. But he could only pace. Jaskier’s blood was on his swords and his armor. And what use was unpacking when he was sure to be sent on his way soon.

Geralt had considered leaving while the healer worked. Save Jaskier the trouble of straining himself in fury later. It tempts him still, to disappear into the night. He wishes now that he was more of a coward.

Dawn will break soon, Geralt thinks, staring out at the horizon from their small, dirty window. He would go then and restock their supplies, enough to last him a while here. It would cost him all his coin without the earnings from the witch, but it was the least he could do...

“Geralt?”

He spins around at the sound, little more than a croak. If the stiffness in Jaskier’s shoulders or the wideness of his gaze weren’t enough, Geralt could smell it in the air – the sour scent of fear. 

“Are you… are you alright?” asks Jaskier, of course, he does.

“I should be asking you that.”

All the tension leaks out of Jaskier at once, his body sagging into the bed. A soft smile finds his lips. “Thank goodness, I thought-” He falters, and his smile falls as Geralt steps back. 

To be sent away was terrible enough a thought, but this… this he could not bear. He could not bear Jaskier’s kindness, his forgiveness, not now when he deserves it least. It’s too much, too  _ much _ .

Jaskier calls his name as he makes for the door and again as he opens it and again as he retreats down the hall. Geralt thinks he hears him all the way to the edge of town. Perhaps he is a coward after all.


	2. fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 2: "i can't do this anymore"  
> tags: friends with benefits, breakup, hopeful ending

Jaskier is still awake when the sun begins to rise. He lays there under the blankets staring at the remnants of last night’s fire, embers still smoking, as the early rays brighten their camp. The first birds have yet to begin their song, but he knows it will be soon. 

It hadn’t been an especially cold night; autumn was still a while away. And yet, Jaskier finds himself folded into an embrace usually reserved for real cold. Warm breath still ghosts across his nape and a familiar  _ thump  _ against his back, steady and slow as it had been all through the night. 

The arm across his waist twitches and the pit of dread nestled in his gut lurches back to life. His little reprieve would end very soon now. One more night was all he wanted, a precious few more moments to pretend. He’s lucky to have had even this, he knows, but as it slips away he can’t help but wish for more. Such was his greedy, foolish heart, the very fiend that tangled him up in this in the first place.

He was so happy that first night. A little drunk, he grants, but when Geralt pulled him close and kissed him breathless, Jaskier could have touched the fucking clouds. And maybe it was the wine, but everything about that night was perfect to him. The way Geralt kissed him, the way he touched him, the way he moaned in his ear and held him close after. Perfect like a dream.

So when Jaskier woke to a cold bed and a grunt in place of a ‘good morning’, he didn’t let it phase him. Much. Of course, it would be this way, he’d have been a fool to think otherwise. And it was fine. He had his perfect memories and that could be enough. He could make that enough.

But then it happened again. And again. And it was fine. Better, perhaps. Jaskier could do that, be a friend in the every day and something else on occasion. Something closer to what he wanted. Yes, he could do that, had done that before. It was  _ fine _ .

Until it wasn’t.

Geralt disappeared from the inn where they stayed one night in some backwater town, Jaskier forgets the name. And that was fine, he was a grown man, free to do as he pleased. Jaskier didn’t think anything of it at the time. Early the next morning, Geralt woke him with a trail of kisses down his spine.

And it was  _ perfect _ .

Perfect, until Jaskier curled up to Geralt’s chest and his nose bumped his skin and he smelled it. Lilacs. And maybe Jaskier could have convinced himself that it was nothing, to let it be because his sense of smell was no winner anyway, but then he saw it. A red smudge just beneath Geralt’s ear.

Jaskier didn’t linger then, throwing on clothes and going to fetch a bath. He felt filthy all of the sudden. Everywhere Geralt had touched him, everywhere he’d kissed him, haunted by the ghost of someone else. Because that’s what Jaskier was, wasn’t he? An object of convenience, second string. Couldn’t be bothered to wash before climbing into his bed. He was nothing.

It should have been the last time, Jaskier sees that now. But he’s always been weak in these matters. So when Geralt ran a hand up his thigh or nosed gently at his neck, Jaskier leaned into the touch. And when Geralt came to him in the early hours stinking of perfume with color still smeared on his skin, Jaskier held his breath and closed his eyes. If Geralt noticed, he never said, and that was alright.

Because it was  _ fine _ . Jaskier could do this. He could take these moments with the one he loved, even as that one pined for another. He could warm Geralt’s bed, even hours after someone else had left it. He could be nothing. He could…

The birds start singing. The blankets shift. The arm around Jaskier’s waist pulls back and a hand slips up his loose shirt. Lips touch his shoulder. He closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip.

_ No more. _

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jaskier says. His voice is no stronger than he feels.

The hands and lips freeze on his skin, then are gone all at once. Jaskier shivers at their absence, even though it’s not especially cold. He sits up, drawing his knees into his chest. He sees Geralt sat on the edge of the bedding, as far away as he can be without subjecting his bare backside to twigs and thorns.

Geralt’s brow is furrowed, much the same as it always is, but deeper now, more troubled. “I thought… I thought you wanted this.”

“I did. I do.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jaskier sighs deeply and looks off to the side, escaping the intensity of it all for a moment. All night, he lied awake imagining this conversation and never made any progress planning his speech. The words eluded him in a way words never did. He turns back.

“I love you.” The admission weighs heavy on Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt says nothing for a beat. Then, “I know.” Of course, he does. Dense, he may be, but a fool, he is not. It’s the response he expected if there had been a response at all. It hurts anyway.

“I can’t–” it sounds wrong in Jaskier’s ears and stops himself.  _ Deep breath. _ “I want more than you’re ready to give. And I can’t be…” _ A consolation. Nothing.  _ “I can’t be this for you anymore. I can’t idle while you work out what you want.”

Geralt opens his mouth but it silent for a moment, searching for words. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Jaskier smiles in spite of himself, a delicate, fragile thing. “No more than I want to leave.”

“But you will.”

His little smile slips and Jaskier drops his gaze. “I need time. Can you give me that?”

Bright light shines between the trees as the sun’s face begins to show, as if the world truly intends to go on with or without them. Jaskier feels its warmth on his skin and aches for the beginning it promises. Geralt nods stiffly and Jaskier reaches his hand across the little space between them. Geralt doesn’t hesitate long before tangling their fingers lightly.

And a new day dawns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	3. too late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 3: (alt. 5) hostage situation  
> tags: established relationship, canon-typical violence

It was a nice day. The sun was shining and a warm breeze blew through the air, bringing the scent of freshly bloomed flowers with it. Every now and again as they walked, a flash caught Geralt’s eye, sunlight reflecting off the river far below their feet. 

He wouldn’t have walked so close to the cliffside on his own, but Jaskier had insisted. Apparently, the view was too beautiful to miss on such a lovely day. Geralt didn’t mind it though, he could admit that Jaskier had a point. He didn’t even have his armor on, deciding instead to enjoy the air unobstructed.

It was peaceful, too. Not silent, of course. Even without birds singing in the trees or insects buzzing unseen, silence was something Geralt’d given up on years ago. He’d grown used to Jaskier’s voice in the background of everything, chattering idly about whatever struck his fancy. Even learned to like it. Quite well as of late.

Geralt looked over at him, smiling in the sunlight, and thought in the privacy of his mind how perfectly suited Jaskier’s face was for smiling. He would tease Geralt mercilessly if he could hear it. He never would, of course, words of admiration didn’t come as naturally to Geralt. He had other ways.

But there would be time for that later. They weren’t far now from town and with it a hot supper and a warm bed. A bath too if Jaskier played well, and he always played well. Geralt thought about staying a few days if they had the coin. Eat well, drink deep, get rest and…  _ not _ .

If he hadn’t been so concerned with daydreaming, perhaps he would have heard them coming. 

He should have, from the first rustle in the bushes, if he hadn’t been distracted. Watching the hills roll in the distance and listening to Jaskier hum a new melody instead of their surroundings. Geralt didn’t notice the signs, not until the wind turned and the scent of blood and sweat filled his nose. By then, it was too late.

Geralt stopped in his tracks, grabbing Jaskier by the back of his shirt as he went. He opened his mouth to speak, but Geralt shushed him harshly. Jaskier’s smile disappeared. Geralt listened. They were just beyond the tree line, a dozen at least, maybe more. 

It was too late to run. Geralt didn’t even have his swords strapped on, fucking fool that he was, letting his guard down as if a nice day would protect them. The time he wasted groping for them was all the band needed to surround them on three sides, four at each flank and five ahead.

“Geralt”, said Jaskier, turning to him like always did, to protect him like he should have done _. _

There were too many, too many to fight with Jaskier crushed against his back. And these were no common thieves or highwaymen, these were trained mercenaries, armed and armored to the teeth. Cornered against the cliff, their only hope was if Geralt could cut a hole in their line and escape into the woods.

“Stay low,” Geralt warned, yanking a dagger from his hip and lodging it just above the collar bone of the first brave fucker to step forward.

They weren’t fool enough to rush him all at once, coming at him in pairs. He felled three and had a fourth on his knees when he heard it. A scream, loud and shrill and terrified.

A gruff shout, “Stop!”

Geralt turned. Froze. 

Jaskier had a knife at his throat and a mercenary at his back, snarling over his shoulder. A single red drop disappeared beneath his shirt collar, staining the cream fabric. Geralt could see his chest heaving, hear his faint whimper as the mercenary jerked them back. They stood barely two paces from the cliff’s edge.

“Drop the sword,” the mercenary spat, bearing his yellowed teeth. “Drop it, or he dies!”

The others closed in and faltered when Geralt snarled. These men hadn’t come to take him alive. If he dropped his weapon, they’d kill them both for certain. He had to give them a fighting chance, he had to-

Then Jaskier smiled, a trembling curve of his lips. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Forgive me, darling,” he said. 

By the time Geralt realized, before he could even wonder what that  _ fool  _ was thinking, it was happening. He couldn’t stop him. Too late. Jaskier pushed off.

The mercenary screamed the whole way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	4. the impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 4 (alt. 3): coma  
> tags: temporary character death (assumed), continuation from yesterday's prompt

Geralt looks down at the river’s white water, rushing over rocks and sending a light spray in the wind. He should be able to find it soon.  _ Him _ . Jaskier. His body. The river will have washed him up somewhere by now.

Dusk would be upon him soon. The river is already shadowed by the towering cliff on the other side. It makes little difference. He’ll search through the night if he has to. Geralt couldn’t leave him here alone in the cold and the dark. He hates the cold and the dark.

Geralt should have heard them coming. He should have had ample warning, time to get them to safety. Instead, he was distracted. Distracted by the sunny day and the sweet-smelling breeze, distracted by thoughts of good ale and a soft bed, distracted by the sound of Jaskier’s voice and the warmth of his smile.

_ Forgive me, darling. _

It was a blur after that. In the end, Geralt was alone on the cliff-top staring emptily down at the river below. It was his fault. Wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t wise enough, wasn’t  _ enough _ .

And now he was here by the shore, searching for the body of the man who saved his life by sacrificing his own. Who never would have been here at all if it weren’t for him. 

“Evening, friend,” calls a voice from behind. A man approaches leading a mule and cart along the dirt road just beside the river. He’s missing most of his teeth and he smells as much of mule as the animal itself, but his smile is genuine and his manner harmless. Geralt dips his head in greeting.

“I’d watch meself in these parts, I would. Never know what’ll be lurking.”

“I’m looking for my… for my friend.” Geralt’s throat tightens around the words.

The man squints curiously down at him. “Wouldn’t be a tall fella, would it? Green trousers? Foppish sort of garb-”

Geralt’s heart freezes in his chest. It couldn’t be. “What do you mean? You saw him?”

“Aye, ‘e washed up a ways down. Thought ‘e was dead, black and blue as ‘e was, but then ‘e up and spat out ‘alf the river.”

“Where is he?” he demands, stalking up to the cart. _ It couldn’t be _ .

The man startles, clutching the mule’s lead. “Took ‘im to the temple.”

“Where?!”

“Mile or so back, you-”

Geralt doesn’t wait around for the man to finish, flying into his saddle and urging Roach onto the road.  _ It couldn’t be _ . Jaskier couldn’t have survived a fall like that, it wasn’t  _ possible _ . But who else could it be? Bruised black at the bottom of a cliff, a tall fellow in foppish garb – Geralt couldn’t have described him better if he tried.

_ Please _ , he begs whoever might be listening as the temple comes into view,  _ please let it be true. Let him live. Please. _

The sisters of the temple take a wild-eyed man storming into their temple and demanding to see one of their patients reasonably well. Geralt would apologize for his behavior later after he’d seen Jaskier alive and breathing with his own eyes.

An older woman, Sister Asha he thinks, leads Geralt upstairs and down a hall of identical wooden doors. She stops them about halfway down and blocks the door with her body, fixing him with a stern look.

“This young man needs quiet and rest, understand?” says Sister Asha, and Geralt ducks his head.  _ Fair enough _ , he thinks.

Sister Asha seems satisfied and opens the door, stepping aside to let him pass. It’s a tiny chamber, only room enough for a table covered in supplies in one corner and a bed in the other. Geralt crosses the space in one stride and feels the air leave his lungs.

_ It’s him. _

He’s been changed into a plain shirt with matching trousers (whose quality he would no doubt bemoan), bandaged thoroughly, and the left side of his face is mottled with bruises but it’s him.  _ Jaskier _ Breathing. Heart beating. Geralt sits carefully on the edge of the little cot and looks back at the sister, still watching from the doorway. 

“Is he… will he wake?” asks Geralt, fearing the answer.

“We believe he will,” she says, and he can’t help the strangled sigh of relief. “There are no severe internal injuries. A few broken bones and extensive bruising, but he’s whole. He is very lucky.”

Geralt turns back to Jaskier with a watery chuckle and gently brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “You have no idea. How long?”

“Hard to say. Could be hours, maybe days. May I ask how you’re acquainted with him?”

“He’s my…” The words stick once more, this time unwilling to pass his lips at all. 

“I see,” says Sister Asha after a few silent moments. “I’ll leave you.”

Geralt hears her shut the door behind her and her steps echo down the hall. He reminds himself to thank her later. For now, he closes his eyes and breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	5. the beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 5: "take me instead"  
> tags: beauty and the beast au, we're going to pretend this is whumpier than it is

The people in the village were right, Geralt decided as he approached the castle–a curse had been laid on this land and a strong one at that. Not a thing grew on the moors. The trees at its border were knarled and leafless in the height of summer and the grass was brown as if it hadn’t rained here in an age. Stranger still was the thick cloud cover over the land, darkening the sky and promising a storm that clearly never came. Even the air felt sick, dry in his lungs and sour in his mouth.

With the story about the curse confirmed, he was more apprehensive now about the monster. Typically with a case like this, he would have assumed it was all a fairytale. But with so many similar accounts and a disappearance, he thought it was worth looking into. There were slight variations, but all the stories agreed on one thing: there was a hideous beast roaming the halls of this old keep.

Whether the beast was the orchestrator of this curse or a victim of it remained to be seen, but Geralt had no doubt that the two were related somehow. If it was cursed, he might be able to help it. All that would depend on the state of the young girl who had supposedly been stolen by it. In truth, he still wasn’t convinced that the girl didn’t run off.

The castle hardly deserved the name. The stone steps were crumbling away and the walls were riddled with holes. From afar, Geralt had seen that its one remaining tower was barely standing, looking as if it had been cleaved in half. The interior was in a similar state. Dry leaves covered the floor and brittle ivy curled in over the gaping walls. 

His eyes told him to doubt the existence of this beast once more; there was no sign at all that anyone had stepped foot here in decades. He walked down a hall and a decrepit staircase, careful to avoid trodding on the dead foliage. There was nothing here, no signs of anything coming or going, no carcasses or bones picked clean, no scent or sound of–

Geralt halted where he stood. He heard something, coming from below. Just when he thought he may have tricked himself, he heard it again, a quiet sniffle. Someone crying. A girl.

Down another hall, he found a second set of stairs, these ones cleared of debris in the center as if someone had been going up and down. He kept close to the walls as he descended and the sounds grew clearer. The stairs led to a dungeon in similar disarray, old bars littering the floor. The place was empty except for the very last cell.

The girl in the cell was filthy and her frock was torn, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Geralt held a finger up to his lips to shush her as she looked up at him. Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp.

He bent down to examine the door, but he found the cell was unlocked. Odd, he thought. Geralt pushed open the cell with a creek, but when he looked back at the girl, she was huddled in the far corner with fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. 

She pointed at him. No, not at him.  _ Behind him _ .

Geralt spun around, unsheathing his sword, and his eyes landed on… nothing. Well, not nothing. But it was no beast. Just a man. He was no taller than Geralt himself and had no fur save the thatch of brown on his head, only just visible from beneath his black hood. 

The man raised his chin and Geralt saw what must have frightened the girl; enormous white fangs protruding from his mouth and curling down to his chin. His eyes shined like an animal’s in the dark, but they were only blue, if a bit large. Geralt admitted that he was nervous himself about how the man managed to get so close without him noticing, but this was not the ferocious monster he’d been expecting.

“You shouldn’t be here, Witcher,” said the man in a low voice.

“I came for the girl,” Geralt replied calmly. “What do you want with her?”

“She is a thief,” he growled, baring more sharp teeth.

“It was only a flower!” cried the girl from the cell and the man roared, stepping closer. Geralt held his sword high, a warning.

“A prison sentence for a flower?” asked Geralt. The man didn’t reply. 

Geralt couldn’t see more than his face, but it was clear enough that this man was no sorcerer. He could have frightened the girl away or killed her, but instead, he put her in a cell with no lock. He was under this curse, as much a prisoner here as she was. 

Mind made up, Geralt knelt slowly to the ground and laid his sword at his feet. “Take me as your prisoner instead. I will serve her sentence.”

The man stepped back, clearly expecting a trick. “Why would I want a Witcher as a prisoner?”

“I can’t hurt you without my weapon,” said Geralt, kicking his sword further away. “You’re cursed. Let me help.”

The man stood still and silent for a long while. “Why don’t you just kill me?” 

“I only kill monsters, if I can help it.”

Another long pause.

“Into the cell, Witcher,” said the man, retreating further into the shadows. Putting space between them should it all be a rouse.

“Geralt.”

“Into the cell, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	6. in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 6: insomnia   
> tags: nightmares, hurt/comfort, ptsd

Geralt wakes to a crack of deafening thunder, eyes flying open to a pulse of bright light. The storm is well underway. He hears the pound of rain and hailstones on the inn roof and knows they were lucky to be so close to town when the clouds gathered. It’s a bad night to sleep outdoors.

His arm reaches out under the covers, but he finds the sheets beside him are empty and cold. The sour smell of fear and salt of sweat still cling to them. Worry tugs at his gut as he sits up. Nightmares again, no doubt. 

Jaskier hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months now. Even naps and dozes are interrupted by horrors, images of whatever he had endured in his weeks of imprisonment. He still refuses to tell Geralt any details–for whose sake, he can’t be sure. All he knows of it is the frantic, frightened snippets Jaskier mumbles out after screaming himself awake before he remembers where he is. Geralt doesn’t press him. That little bit is enough to haunt his own dreams as it is.

Another flash of lightning gives Jaskier away, illuminating his silhouette against the window. The sill is deep enough to sit in and he’s curled himself into the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. Even from here, Geralt can see that his eyes are puffy from rubbing. His expression is empty the way it always is after a nightmare when he’s retreating into himself. Geralt slides out of bed and crosses the room.

Jaskier doesn’t respond the first time Geralt calls his name or the second. Only when Geralt grasps his shoulder does Jaskier startle back to reality, glassy gaze falling in him. His expression doesn’t change and Geralt almost wishes he would fake a smile. At least then, he would know Jaskier felt well enough to pretend. Geralt pulls a chair away from the table and sits down beside the window.

“The dreams again?” he asks.

Jaskier nods, eyes still fixed on the rain outside.

Geralt reaches up for one of Jaskier’s hands where they’re wrapped around his shins and pulls it down to hold. “You should have woken me.”

“No need for both of us to be exhausted tomorrow,” says Jaskier. His voice is little more than a whisper.

Geralt thinks of how difficult it is for Jaksier to keep up these days and feels a pang of guilt. He wishes they could stay put longer, but with only one of them earring a living, it’s a luxury they simply can’t afford–especially with how slow they move. Jaskier has a mount now, but Geralt keeps them both walking most of the day anyway. Better Jaskier keep himself awake with walking than risk him breaking his neck falling from a horse. 

“I don’t like to think of you sitting up by yourself.”

Jaskier does smile now, a weak little thing, but it’s genuine. “You’re too good to me, darling,” he says.

Geralt brings their hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s fingers.  _ If it weren’t for me, you would still sleep through the night _ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Jaskier doesn’t need an argument right now. “I wish I could do more,” he says instead.

Jaskier’s eyes begin to well up anew and he squeezes them shut against it, but only for a moment. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them.” His voice shakes and sobs catch in his throat. “Always there, always waiting. In the dark, I’m always back there in that  _ fucking cell _ …” 

Geralt leans in closer as he starts to cry in earnest and shushes him gently, falling back on his usual assurances– _ you’re not there, you’ll never be back there, I promise _ . He hates how familiar they feel on his tongue. 

Jaskier wraps an arm around Geralt’s neck and Geralt lets him cradle his head to his chest. He hears the hammering of Jaskier’s heart and feels the stuttering in his chest and Geralt closes his eyes. He wishes so badly that he could take Jaskier’s pain away, that he could give him back his easy smiles and carefree spirit. He’d pay any price, rise to any challenge, to make his bard happy again.

The minutes pass and Jaskier settles some, soothes himself running his fingers through Geralt’s hair. His breath evens out. His heart slows. Geralt raises his head slowly and Jaskier lets him, his hands shifting to frame Geralt’s face. 

Jaskier’s eyes are rimmed red and still shining with unshed tears and Geralt knows there’s something profound and comforting he ought to say but he can’t work out what. Words never come easy to him, even when the need is dire. So he says nothing. Instead, he leans in and brings their heads together, fitting his forehead to the bridge of Jaskier’s nose, and hopes it’s enough. 

They hold each other tightly. The storm rages all through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	7. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
>  ~~day 7: poisoning~~ i really wasn't feeling this prompt and the whole point of this for me is write everyday so today you get fluff  
> tags: fem!geralt, fluff

“You befuddle me, do you know that?” Jaskier grumbled, tossing his comb onto the bed beside them. “You have the most beautiful hair of anyone I've ever seen, yet no interest whatsoever in caring for it.”

Geralt sighed in the dismissive sort of way she knew would get on his nerves and smiled when she heard his huff. “I've no need to with you here to kick up a fuss over it.”

Jaskier insisted quite fervently on combing through her hair for her at least once a day, more if he could get away with it. Which he often did. Geralt still made her halfhearted protests, but there’d been no substance behind them for some time. Loath as she was to admit it, it was nice to have her hair combed–both for the necessary maintenance and for the surprising amount of intimacy that came with it.

He hadn’t even let her out of bed this morning, insisting on ‘taming the beast’ before breakfast. Geralt could have thrown him off, of course, but she just rolled her eyes and let him hunt around for the comb. Now, sat crisscrossed between his legs clad in nothing but one of his silky shirts as he began parting her hair for a braid, she was glad of her choice.

“Yen says that hair is just dead skin growing out anyway,” said Geralt in a teasing tone.

Jaskier huffed dramatically. He so hated Yennefer’s fun facts. “Well, Yen also says that the tides are caused by the moon, and the Earth goes round the sun, so pinch of salt and all.”

“I think the Earth does go round the sun.”

“Now you're just being ridiculous to spite me.” 

Not so long ago, Geralt would have bristled at Jaskier’s apparent animosity, but she knew he meant nothing by it. With the jealousy between them dissolved, their taunts turned to teasing and something like friendship had begun to take root. Geralt was glad of it; it pleased her to know that the two most important people in her life were on good terms.

“Next time we see her, I'll have her tell you,” she said. “It makes sense when she explains it.”

“Being convincing and being right are not the same thing.”

“It's all written down in a book.”

Jaskier gave a loud, phony laugh. “Any fool can write a book, my love. You could write a book if you wanted to.”

Geralt let out her own bark of laughter and turned her head a smidge to look at him. “Now who's being ridiculous, bard?” 

“You could!” he exclaimed, firmly repositioning her head without losing his place in the braid.

“What would I write a book about?”

Jaskier pondered for a moment. “You could write a modern bestiary. Or a chronicle of Witcher history. I would obviously transcribe it for you, your hand is barely legible.”

“My hand is perfectly legible.”

“The first time you wrote to me, I thought it was one of my students having a go at me.” She could practically see the smug smirk on his lips.

“Never had a complaint before.”

“How often do you write to people?”

_ Never, except for you _ , she thought. Aloud, she only hummed.

“We can get you more practice this winter,” said Jaskier. “I'll make up some exercises to take with you if you like.”

Winter. Geralt had been thinking a lot about winter lately. Autumn had only just begun, but the cold winds would rise again before long, driving her back to the mountains and Jaskier off to wherever fortune took him this time. In the months since things had shifted between them, Geralt found herself more and more troubled by the thought of parting with him. A whole season spent without seeing his face or feeling his touch or letting him comb her damn hair seemed like a lifetime, far too long to bear.

She thought of Jaskier at the keep wandering the halls and getting on with her brothers because she knew he would, just like he did with everyone. Thought of him singing after supper and her pretending to hate it while the others jeered. Thought of him warming her bed every night and seeing his smile every morning.

The image alone nearly took Geralt’s breath away and she was struck suddenly by how much she  _ wanted  _ that. And she knew all she had to do was ask. The words clawed at her chest. She gathered her courage.

“Jas?”

“Hmm?”

“What if we didn't.”  _ Fuck, _ she sounded like such an idiot. “Get me practice.”

“Then I suppose you'd continue to write like a drunk child.”

Geralt embowed him playfully in the side and he laughed, twisting out of her reach. She watched him take the hairband from atop his thigh and tie off her braid.

“I mean… what if you came with me this winter?”

Jaskier went utterly still at the words and she heard his breath halt not a moment after hers. They sat there stiff as stones and just as she decided that she’d made a horrible mistake, to brush it off as a joke or something, she felt his arms wrap tightly around her waist and his nose bury itself in her neck. He finally exhaled and she felt his smile pressed into her skin. 

“I think that would be lovely, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	8. red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 8: "hey, hey, this is no time to sleep"  
> tags: concussions, hurt/comfort

Geralt shakes his head and then remembers that he is  _ not  _ supposed to be doing that. Pain lances through his skull like a… a… he doesn’t know what, but it fucking  _ hurts _ . He reaches blindly for something to steady himself on as his stomach begins to roll.

He’s on the ground now. How did he get here? He’s not supposed to be on the ground, he’s supposed to be walking. He has to be somewhere or…

Or…

He can’t remember. He has to get somewhere or something will happen, but he can’t remember where or what and… He can’t remember which way he’s supposed to go. Maybe he should get up? Yes, everything will make more sense when he isn’t on the ground anymore.

He has to stop halfway up and lean on a tree (he’s in the forest?) to keep himself from vomiting. Is he ill? He doesn’t remember being ill. But he doesn’t remember laying on the ground either, he supposes. Is he usually so forgetful?

“No,” he mumbles to himself, wincing at the sound. No more questions. He needs to stand up.

Things don’t make more sense on his feet. He needs to walk, but where to? And where has he come from? Why… why did he need to stand up anyway? His stomach felt much better on the ground. And the world looked less… fuzzy.

Maybe he should lay back down on the ground? He could take a nap. A nap sounds like a good idea… 

“Geralt!” someone shouts and it rings in his ears, but he knows that voice. It… it sings, that voice. But if it sings, then why is it shouting? 

Before he has a moment to think about whether or not that makes any sense, someone is emerging from the trees. Too much red, he’s wearing far too much red. It hurts Geralt’s eyes a bit, all that red. The red man comes closer and his face stops being so blurry and Geralt thinks it’s a good thing the man’s face isn’t red too.

“Thank the Gods, what are doing out–” The man stops talking when Geralt covers his ears because his head is  _ splitting  _ from all that noise… he feels ill again… he thinks he might fall…

He doesn’t fall. There’s someone holding him up and helping him lean on a tree. He looks up and it’s the noisy red man who’s helping him and he looks very worried… Worried! That’s what was going to happen if Geralt didn’t get somewhere, someone was going to be worried. Maybe the red man will know which way he’s supposed to go.

“I have to… worry,” says Geralt, and it’s too loud and it isn’t  _ right,  _ damn it.

The red man doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with a furrowed brow. Geralt knows that look, he thinks, but he doesn’t know where he knows it from. The red man starts patting at Geralt’s front and his arms and he means to ask what he’s looking for, but then the red man reaches behind his head and it feels like there are spikes drilling into his ears. The world turns black on the edges.

The red man pulls his hand away and now he has a red hand too.

~

Jaskier’s heart all but stops when he pulls his hand away. It’s completely covered in blood. He wants to ask what the  _ fuck  _ had happened but he thinks of the way Geralt had winced before when he spoke, like the world was collapsing on him, and keeps quiet.

Geralt starts sliding down the tree to the forest floor and Jaskier helps him sit as gently as he can. There’s none of Geralt’s usual grace in his movements, he just plops down like a clumsy child. Jaskier carefully pulls Geralt’s head forward to assess the damage and bile rises in his throat at the sight.

There’s blood everywhere, matted in his hair, trailing down the back of his neck, soaking his shirt beneath his armor, and it’s still coming in a slow trickle. Jaskier feels panicked tears pick his eyes and suddenly it’s very hard to breathe. He doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t some gash he can clean out and sew up, this is his head, his  _ skull  _ that could be smashed in, and his brain along with it.

Jaskier forces himself to breathe. Once. Twice. In. Out. Dissolving into a puddle of fear will do nothing for either of them right now. He has to get Geralt back to camp and clean up all this blood and then… well, he doesn’t know what right now. One miracle at a time. Gently as he can, he lifts Geralt’s head back up and finds his eyes closed.

“Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep,” says Jaskier, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. Geralt’s eyes flutter a bit, but he doesn’t rouse. “Geralt, open your eyes!” 

Geralt winces at the noise but if it keeps him conscious, Jaskier doesn’t care just now.

“I can’t carry you, I need you to stay awake.” Jaskier lifts an arm over his shoulder, but Geralt pulls away weakly.

“M’tired,” he mutters.

“I know, love, I know you are, but you can’t sleep here. It’s very important that you do not sleep right now, alright?”

Geralt seems to ponder this for a few moments and fixes Jaskier with a very confused look. “You… you’re worried.”

“Yes, I am,” Jaskier says and rests a shaking hand on Geralt’s jaw and he leans into the touch. “I’m very, very worried. But I would feel a lot better if you stood up. Can you do that for me?”

Geralt makes a face that could conceivably be called thoughtful and nods

~

Hours are lost in blood and tears and fear, but the sun rises again. Jaskier is at Geralt’s side in a second when his eyes finally open, praying to whoever might listen that it’s still his Witcher in there.

Geralt looks him up and down. “You wear too much red,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	9. be better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 9 (alt. 2): "i can't lose you too"  
> tags: no ship in this one - just geralt and ciri finding their footing

It’s dark out when Ciri wakes up. The fire has burned itself out, but it’s still warm in the cave where they set up camp. She sits up and stretches her stiff muscles. She’s not sure she prefers caves to the open forest; warmer, it may be, but dirt is softer than stone to sleep on.

To her surprise, Geralt is actually sleeping. She’d started to wonder if Witchers just meditated all the time. She felt a pang of guilt seeing him sprawled out in front of the cave’s entrance using a rolled-up shirt for a pillow. With only one bedroll and fear of recognition keeping them away from the markets, he insisted that she needed it more.

It wasn’t just propper bedding they had been going without. Hot meals were few and far between, she desperately needed new boots, and Geralt had complained about his potion stores running out the other day. But Ciri would walk straight through her pitiful pair of boots for a hot bath. Being filthy was an unavoidable part of being on the run and it was dreadfully uncomfortable.

Ciri remembers Geralt saying something about a stream nearby. It wouldn’t be warm, but she might at least be able to be reasonably tidy. Quiet as a mouse, she sets aside her blankets and gets to her feet. She takes extra care stepping around Geralt, opting to walk by his feet rather than his head. She watches him a moment once she’s on the other side and when he doesn’t stir, she tiptoes from the cave.

It’s lighter than she thought it was from inside the cave. The sun is nearly half up, making her trek down the hill to the stream no trouble at all. The stream in question is ankle-deep at most–not suited for a real dip–but it’s clean, clear water and there’s plenty for a quick wash up.

She’s nearly finished, just scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails when she hears leaves rustling and twigs snapping behind her, the sounds of someone (or something) moving through the forest. She jumps to her feet and scrambles behind a tree with a wide trunk. Not the best place to hide, but needs must.

“Ciri! Cirilla!” Ciri sighs in relief when the intruder speaks. It’s only Geralt.

She emerges from behind the tree just as he reaches the stream, hair stuck up from sleep and sword raised. His eyes are wide with worry but it twists to anger when he sees her.

“What are you doing down here alone?” he asks, and Ciri’s mouth goes dry. Geralt always has a look on his face like someone stepped on his foot, but this is something else entirely, fury if she’s ever seen it.

“I was just washing up,” she says, her voice barely audible to her own ears.

“In the woods, by yourself, unarmed? Have you lost your fucking mind?! Besides the  _ manhunt  _ on for you, there’s bandits and worse out here and every one of them would skin you alive for a half a crown!”

Ciri purses her lips, unsure what to say. Geralt has never so much as raised his voice to her in their few weeks together, let alone shouted at her and she feels an inch tall in the face of it. Even more than that, she feels anger of her own rising in her chest. She  _ is  _ being hunted. Hunted like an animal and she doesn’t even know what for and all she wanted was to wash the bloody dirt from under her nails and this is what she gets?

“Do not ever do that again, do you understand me?” he bellows.

Ciri feels hot tears of frustration gathering in her eyes and ducks her head before taking off back up the hill. She won’t cry in front of him.

~

Geralt listens to the girl’s feet stomping up the hill, eyes fixed on the spot she’d vacated. As his fear dissipates, he begins to wonder when he became such a  _ fucking idiot _ . 

There’s no one within a mile of them, he can hear it himself now that the pound of his own heart isn’t filling his ears. All she wanted to do was clean herself up and he just screamed at her for it, like she had done something wrong. Maybe she could have let him know, but she wasn’t stupid, and she’d made it nearly this far by herself. She deserved more credit than he’d given her.

Why did he  _ do  _ this? He’d already driven off damn near everyone who ever cared about him (not that it was ever a long list) with his stubbornness and his temper, and that wasn’t enough? Now he had to take it out on Ciri as if she hasn’t been through enough? 

He can’t be like this anymore, he knows he can’t. She needs him and she needs him to be better than the fool he’d been in the past. He can’t lose her too. He won’t. Geralt curses at himself and begins the trudge back up the hill. If he’s breaking patterns, he ought to start with an apology.

He finds Ciri huddled in the very back of the cave picking at her nails. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t provide even the tiniest suggestion that she notices him standing there. He probably deserves that. With a huff and a grumble, Geralt lowers himself to the ground and sits crisscrossed in front of her.

“I’m sorry I shouted,” he says. 

Ciri continues to ignore him. 

“It was wrong of me.”

Nothing.

Geralt sighs, loud and long-suffering. “You scared me, Ciri. It’s dangerous out here and when I couldn’t find you, I thought something terrible had happened to you.”

He has her attention now; she doesn’t lift her head but her hands are still and he can see her eyes watching him. He swallows.

“I’m shit at this,” he says, and she stifles a giggle, finally looking up at him properly. “I’m shit at being there for people. I’m doing the best I can, and I know it isn’t very good, but it’s what I have. I’m trying to do better. Maybe you could try not disappearing while I’m asleep?”

She offers him a little smile and he returns it. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	10. too little, too late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 10: "i'm sorry, i didn't know"  
> tags: hanahaki disease, major character death, posthumous love confessions, hurt/no comfort

The news reaches Geralt by chance. 

He’s passing through Hagge to resupply before a long trek south. He hadn’t even intended to stay the night, but storm clouds gathered around midday and he got a room with hopes that the worst of it would pass overnight. It’s almost funny. If not for a spontaneous turn of the weather, it may have been months before he found out.

The rain has started by the time Geralt claims a corner table at the back of the inn’s accompanying tavern. It’s crowded by his standards, but there are still a few empty tables. He’s halfway through his second drink when a bard saunters to the front of the room, drawing every eye with his loud garb and ridiculous feathered cap. 

Geralt downs the rest of his ale in a hurry and rises from his seat. The odds of hearing a song about the White Wolf are slim in the grand scheme, but slim is more than zero, and more than enough to drive him from the room. He drops a few coins on the table and makes for the stairs.

The bard clears his throat. “Greetings travelers and good people of Hagge! I am Terant, and my performance this evening shall be an homage to the late bard and poet, Jaskier–a true master of his craft. May his work forever preserve his memory.”

“Get on with it!” someone jeers.

Geralt freezes. His feet, his breath, the beat of his heart, all of it still.  _ Late… his memory… _ It couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake, some other poet with the same stupid name, it  _ had  _ to be. But then the bard begins to play and there can be no mistaking it. Geralt knows this song, had known it when it was little more than a string of notes hummed to pass the time. 

Someone jostles his shoulder, jolting him back to reality. He catches a few curious pairs of eyes staring and suddenly the room is far too crowded–hot and airless. Geralt abandons his path to the stairs and turns to the exit at a near-jog.

He bursts through the door, startling a pair of incoming patrons, and escapes into the rain. The street is empty so there’s no one to see him lean heavily against the side of the inn and try helplessly to catch his breath.

His own voice echos in his head, cruel and biting, _ if life could give me one blessing. _

He knows he’ll never get to take it back.

~

It’s raining the day Geralt arrives at the estate. It hadn’t ever really stopped between Hagge and here. It’s fitting, he thinks. Jaskier would have said ‘poetic’.

He’s left in an opulent hallway to wait for the Lord and Lady to receive him and he feels like a fish out water among the finery in his only moderately clean garments. He tries to imagine a young Jaskier, little Lord Julian, walking this very hall with a stiff collar and books on his head to mind his posture. No wonder he left this place. Such a life, for all its luxuries, would have been a prison to him, like caging a bird. 

Just before Geralt decides that it’s been too long, that clearly Jaskier’s family intends on sending him away, the same servant who led him inside emerges from the chamber he’d entered and ushers Geralt inside.

The room is even more bedecked than the hall and at a masterfully painted table sit three nobles in fine, colorful clothes–a man and two women. The man looks the spit of Jaskier a few decades aged except for his brown eyes and the younger of the two women is much the same with softer features. She must be his sister. Geralt didn’t know he’d had a sister.

Before anyone can breathe a word, the woman who must be Jaskier’s mother speaks with a voice that commands, “What are you doing here?”

She glares at him with Jaskier’s eyes.

“Mother, please–” his sister tries, but she gets no further.

“How dare you show your face here. You did this! You killed my son!” 

“That’s enough, my dear,” says Lord Pankratz firmly. “He came all this way, we will allow the man to pay his respects.”

Jaskier’s mother doesn’t refute her husband’s decision aloud, but the way she rises from the table, chair screeching against the floor is enough. She leaves the room without a word, pausing only to spit at Geralt’s feet.

His sister is the one to break the long silence that follows. “Apologies for my mother,” she says and the sympathy in her eyes is genuine.

Geralt clears the lump from his throat before he replies. “None necessary. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome here for the night,” says Lord Pankratz, “but I think it best that you move on in the morning. My wife’s feelings are shared by many, due to the nature of our son’s death.”

“Sir?” For all Geralt’s attempts to find out, no one had been able to tell him what happened.

Lord Pankratz opens his mouth to answer, but the words don’t come. Geralt prepares himself for all manner of tragedies. It must have been truly gruesome if he can’t even speak of it. The pair of nobles share a knowing look before the sister speaks.

“My brother was afflicted by the curse of flowers. Hanahaki, I believe academics call it.” 

Geralt’s heart drops to his stomach and his stomach to the floor. The curse of flowers was a dreadful way to die, slow and painful. He wonders how he could have missed it for all the years it must have ailed Jaskier before it got this far. And why didn’t he  _ tell  _ him, he could have found him a healer, could have bought him more time, he could have–

His mother. She watched her son choke on bloody petals, watched him drown in unrequited love and she blamed Geralt. ‘You killed my son’, she’d said. He feels the blood drain from his face and a sudden chill envelope him.  _ No. Please, please, no _ .

“You’ll want to leave your things before you pay your respects,” says Lord Pankratz, ringing a little bell. “Bernard will see you to a chamber.”

All the way to his room, Geralt can only think about how Jaskier must have inherited all the kindness in his heart from his father. A man so generous, he can offer hospitality to his only son’s murderer. 

~

The clouds are still dark and heavy when Geralt leaves for the graveyard, but the rain has stopped. Bernard is kind enough to lead him to the wood behind the estate and show him the path to the family resting place. The path is laid with stone and well-kept, winding through the wood without a single weed encroaching upon it. 

At its end, he finds a small graveyard surrounded by trees and decorated with a dozen or so headstones. But he’s not alone here. By the grave nearest to the path, the one whose dirt is still raised in a mound, stands a woman in a fine dress already staring at him. Jaskier’s mother.

“My lady,” he says with a bow. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I was just leaving.” She wraps her shawl tighter around herself, but she doesn’t go. “Do you know why I blame you for my son’s death?” she asks instead.

Geralt clenches his jaw and avoids her gaze. He can’t offer her the answer she deserves because saying it would make it true and it  _ can’t  _ be true. Some small, foolish part of him hopes beyond hope that he’s gravely misunderstood and that someone is going to burst in and explain the whole mess away.

She offers him no such respite. “We begged him to send for you,” she says and Geralt holds his breath against the tightening in his chest. “Surely some chance was better than none, we thought. My husband sent riders after you, but you’re a hard man to find. He wouldn’t tell us how to find you. He was so certain it would only sour what time he had left.”

She’s silent for a few moments. Then, “Could you have saved him?”

Geralt looks up at her properly, but any words he may have mustered are lost when he sees her eyes.  _ His  _ eyes _.  _ The same shape and indescribably blue, but so much colder than his could ever have been.

“Grief has made me cruel,” she says when Geralt doesn’t reply. “It would bring me some comfort to know that you will suffer the way he suffered. Suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

She turns away and Geralt waits until she disappeared down the path before he lets himself exhale. His breath begins to catch in his chest and he kneels beside the stone. There are flowers carved into it. Buttercups.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I–” His words are worth nothing now, but he stutters through them anyway. Jaskier deserves to know, wherever he is. “I could– I could’ve loved you back.”

Whatever control Geralt had wielded over the past weeks dissolves into nothing. He feels his face twist and his vision blurs. For the first time after Hagge, the first time in a long time, he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	11. fever dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 11: hallucinations  
> tags: this one has touches of geralt/renfri, yennefer, and jaskier (separately) and a dash of father-figure vesemir

Vesemir comes to him first.

“What have I told you about your footwork, boy?” he says, leaning over to prod at the poorly-wrapped bite on Geralt’s leg. “Sloppy footwork will get you killed.”

“M’not dying,” Geralt murmurs stubbornly.

“This time.”

It’s true enough; the wound hurts like fuck and there would be an ugly scar from it, but Geralt would live. There were side effects, of course. Sweats, chills, mild fever, accelerated heart rate. And the hallucinations. 

Vesemir sits with him a while longer. How long, Geralt can’t say. His grasp of time is a bit… fuzzy. They don’t speak much. Chatting has never been either of their fortes. But it’s nice to have him there, to not be alone.

“You should rest,” says Vesemir, and Geralt wonders when it got so dark. 

He wants to ask if Vesemir will stay while he sleeps, but suddenly he’s too exhausted to lift his head, let alone form a sentence. His eyelids grow heavy. The last thing he sees before he lets them fall is Vesemir looking down at him with that gruff, stern sort of fondness only he can manage.

~

It’s full dark the next time Geralt opens his eyes. He hadn’t thought to start a fire before his strength left him and he regrets it now. The chills have started. He turns over on his side to search for his blanket and finds himself staring into a pair of big brown eyes. 

Renfri’s eyes. 

She’s laying there across from him on her side with her hand tucked up under her head the way princesses do in storybooks when they sleep. She looks much the same as she did the day he met her except… Peaceful. Untroubled.

Her skin is clean of any dirt or blood, her hair falls in perfect ringlets around her face, and her lips are set into something faintly reminiscent of a smile. There’s no sign of injury or pain. No fury burning behind her eyes. Just calm.

A wave of chills creep down Geralt’s spine and he shudders. His blanket is right between them. She doesn’t move or react when he reaches for it, just watches him pull it feebly around himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as if he might blow her away with words alone.

Renfri lifts her free arm from her side and reaches over to tug Geralt’s blanket up to his chin. “I know,” she says.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say then, so he keeps quiet. She doesn’t seem to mind. After she’s satisfied with his blanket, she rests her palm gently on his cheek. It’s not warm. Or cold. If he couldn’t see it in the corner of his eye, he wouldn’t know it was there at all.

They don’t speak again before he drifts off.

~

It’s Yennefer next.

Geralt wakes up on his back with his blanket discarded and every inch of him covered in sweat. It’s still dark, but the stars have shifted from the last time he saw them. At least, he thinks they have. His shirt is plastered to his skin and he tugs weakly at his waistband to free it, but something cold brushes his hands.

“Stop it. If you take it off now, you’ll be freezing later.” 

He blinks and she’s there, leaning over him and laying a hand on his forehead. Her hand is cold, but her eyes are warm.

“The fever’s set in,” she says.

Geralt thinks of the last time he saw Yennefer, how her face had crumpled and her eyes filled with unshed tears. There was none of that now, no anger or disappointment or sadness. She looks almost happy. Content, at least.

There’s so much he needs to say to her, so many explanations and apologies. But then she smiles down at him and they all die on his tongue. Anything that would take that smile away can wait.

Yennefer lifts her palm from his forehead and her cool fingers begin to trace a path over his skin, from his temple to his cheek and his jaw and chin, then back again. It’s soft and soothing and Geralt feels his eyes sliding shut again before long. He tries to fight it for a while, but he knows it’s no use.

“Sleep,” she tells him.

Her touch disappears the moment he closes his eyes.

~

Geralt rouses again to the glow of early morning. His sweat has dried and the fever has gone, chills too. He thinks the poison has run its course. Then he turns his head. Less than an arm’s length away sits Jaskier, back rested against a tree looking down at him. 

He’s wearing the same garish red ensemble as he had been the last time Geralt had seen him, but that is the only similarity to be had. There’s no tension in the line of his shoulders or the set of his jaw. He leans casually against the tree with his legs stretched out before him as lax and carefree as he’d ever been. 

Geralt’s head feels clearer now than it had since before the bite. A part of him wonders if this is really a vision at all. He looks up at Jaskier and sees nothing but warmth and ease in his blue eyes. That wondering part of him silences.

“Sing for me,” says Geralt, his voice rough from the dryness in his throat.

Jaskier smiles big and bright and reaches down to brush a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. For a moment, they just sit like that, watching each other. Jaskier’s touch almost feels warm.

It’s a lullaby that Jaskier sings for him. One Geralt hasn’t heard since before that was his name. It isn’t very long and when Jaskier reaches the end, he starts again, this time only humming. He goes back and forth between singing and humming and soon Geralt feels sleep tugging at him once more.

He doesn’t fight it this time. He lets Jaskier’s clear voice carry him off and that wondering part of him wonders if he might wake up to it too.

~

It’s late in the morning when Geralt finally, truly, wakes. There is no chill or sweat or fever. His heart is slow and steady again. He looks around his little clearing.

He is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	12. remember me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 12: "who are you?"  
> tags: modern au, amnesia, established relationship

Geralt tries to read Jaskier’s lips through the sliding glass door of his room, but his efforts produce little in the way of useful information. Par for the course at this point. No one has given him a scrap of useful anything since he woke up. Especially Jaskier.

He’s been in this bloody hospital room for two days and every time he looks up, there’s Jaskier talking to doctors and nurses and fluffing pillows and asking if he needs anything. Which would be completely fine, touching even. If Geralt had the faintest idea who Jaskier was.

The doctor says Geralt has temporary amnesia brought on by the trauma to his brain. Or, they hope it’s temporary. Apparently, he was in an accident with his bike. No one else was hurt, thank the Gods, but he woke up two days ago with a killer headache, a half-shaved head, and no memory of the last six years. 

The first thing Geralt saw was Jaskier, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking chair trying to nap. He looked like shit, but when he noticed Geralt was awake, he brightened like the sun. And when he realized Geralt had no idea who he was, he all but ran from the room. 

Jaskier is his friend. That’s all anyone will tell him. Two days Geralt had been here and Jaskier hadn’t gone home once, not to eat or shower or sleep in a real bed. The doctors always waited until Jaskier was in the room before they explained anything. Even Vesemir was acting strangely, calling Jaskier out into the hall to talk where Geralt couldn’t hear them.

Geralt watches them wrap up whatever top-secret conversation they’re having and Vesemir claps Jaskier on the shoulder before disappearing down the hall. Jaskier stands there by himself for a few moments taking noticeably deep breaths before he slides the glass door open and returns to the room. 

Something is going on. Geralt doesn’t know what but he knows that he isn’t being told the truth, at least not all of it. Everyone is walking on eggshells trying to keep something from him and it's driving him mad. It ends right fucking here.

“Who are you?”

Jaskier freezes in his tracks and stares wide-eyed at Geralt. “I’m Jaskier,” he says.

“Not that,” Geralt snaps, “who are you to me? And don’t say you're my friend.”

“I am your friend.” Jaskier wraps his arms around himself like a shield and Geralt sees his hands trembling. 

Geralt steels himself. This isn’t going to be fun for either of them, but he’s tired of being lied to. “My friends went home two days ago. My own brothers are at home right now, but not you.”

Jaskier tries a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “It’s late, why don’t we talk tomorrow after you’ve had some–”

“No!” Geralt shouts. Jaskier jumps at his outburst but he doesn’t care. “You’re always here, every day, and everyone keeps looking at you and asking you if you’re alright and it doesn’t make any fucking sense! All anyone says when I ask is ‘he’s your friend’ and I’m sick of the bullshit, so tell me right now–who the fuck are you?!”

“I’m your fiance!” Jaskier exclaims, tears welling in his eyes.

Geralt blanches. His  _ what _ ? “ _ What? _ ”

Jaskier takes a deep, ragged breath and pulls his phone from his pocket. He unlocks it and hands it to Geralt and… it’s them. Between the apps and way too many notification bubbles, he sees their faces smiling back at him. Well, Jaskier is smiling, wide enough to make his eyes crinkle at the corners. Geralt is too busy kissing the side of his face to smile. 

Geralt stares at the screen with his mouth hanging open and Jaskier takes a seat by the bed.

“We met three years ago,” he says. “I was playing an open mic at this absolute shithole of a bar and you didn’t even look at me. And I’m an egotistical bastard so I walked right up and demanded a review and you bought me a drink. Never got the review.”

Geralt hears fondness in his voice, but he doesn’t look up, eyes fixed on the photo. He lets his thumb hover over their faces, wishing he could touch the captured moment. They look so happy.

“We haven’t set a date yet. You want it in the summer but everyone gets married in the summer, so I say autumn.” Jaskier huffs a little laugh and goes on. “Eskel keeps joking that we’ll spend the rest of our lives bickering over it and never actually get married.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Geralt asks, finally meeting Jaskier’s gaze. He hasn’t shed any tears but his eyes are still a bit too shiny.

“You woke up missing six years of your life.” The little grin Jaskier donned as he recounted their memories slips. “The doctors said to take things slow and we agreed that springing a fiance on you was the opposite of slow.”

Geralt feels a wave of guilt settle across him. He was so irritated, almost  _ angry _ , with Jaskier just for taking care of him. Of course, Jaskier would be here at his bedside all hours of the day. And it must have been a nightmare to have to watch someone he loved look right through him as if they’d never met.

Jaskier  _ loves  _ him. That’s the most un-fucking-believable bit of all. That Geralt met someone so amazing, someone who didn’t mind his baggage and emotional constipation, someone who would sit through the hell that must have been the last two days and not falter once, someone who agreed to spend  _ forever  _ with him.

“Where’s your ring?” Geralt asks dumbly, at a loss for anything else.

Jaskier scoffs at that. “You mean  _ your  _ ring? As if you’d have the nerve to propose first. I have it here.” 

Geralt expects Jaskier to reach for his pocket, but instead, he goes for his own hand. He pulls a silver band from his right ring finger and holds it out for Geralt to take. It’s simple, just plain silver, or maybe platinum. Just his style.

“Look, Jaskier begins, drawing Geralt’s attention from the ring. “I know you don’t know me but I… you mean a lot to me. Everything, really. And I’ll be here to help you with all of this. Anything you need. If you want me too, of course.”

Geralt reaches out for Jaskier’s hands where they’re clasped on the edge of the bed before he can think about it. Just before he touches them, he hesitates, unsure. Jaskier waits patiently for Geralt to gather himself, laying one of his hands out for him, an open invitation. Geralt takes it.

“That sounds good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	13. just a cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 13: hiding injury  
> tags: more like hiding illness

Jaskier is fine.

Or, he will be. The tickle in the back of his throat is just that: a tickle. Probably brought on by the cold and the dry air. He’ll get used to it on their way up the mountain and the tickle will disappear as quickly as it came. 

He feels a shiver down his spine and wraps his new fur-lined cloak more securely around himself. It’s still early morning, their last one in civilization before their trek begins. A week of bad road lay ahead, but at the end of it, a whole winter with Geralt. The first of many if Jaskier has anything to say about it. There’s no need to kick up a fuss with his tickled throat, not when Geralt would surely insist on a delay that could shut them out of the pass altogether. Jaskier is just fine.

“Ready?” Geralt asks with a small grin.

Jaskier sucks in a breath to reply, but it catches on that tickle in his throat, throwing him into a short fit of coughing. Geralt’s face twists into a concerned grimace and he tries to pat him on the back, but Jaskier holds an arm out to stop him.

“M’fine,” he rasps, but Geralt doesn’t look convinced. Jaskier pastes on a smile. “Really. Just caught on my own spit. I’m ready.”

Geralt gives him another skeptical once over, but he doesn’t press it. Jaskier’s tickle feels more like a scratch.

~

It’s three days before Jaskier admits to himself that he might have more than a tickle. 

Every morning he wakes with a new symptom. First, it’s the cough, returning every half-hour or so and leaving a soreness in his chest. Then it’s his breath, feeling short and unsatisfying to his lungs no matter how deep he tries to breathe (not too deep–that means more coughing). Then it’s chills, which he would have been happy to dismiss given the locale were it not for everything else.

Geralt is getting suspicious. He accepted Jaskier’s excuses about the steep incline and thin air, but when Jaskier shivers through the night wrapped in Geralt's arms with three furs on top of them and a fire going, Geralt seems less willing to accept it. 

The fourth morning brings fever and Geralt’s last straw. Jaskier wakes with a chill settled deep in his bones and Geralt looming over him with a scowl on his face.

“You’re sick,” he grumbles, wiping at Jaskier’s sweaty brow with his sleeve.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier replies. Then he coughs for a good thirty seconds.

“How long have you been feeling ill?” Geralt’s worry is strikingly similar to his anger and Jaskier shrinks beneath it, guilt curling in his gut. 

“Just a few days.” At that, Geralt looks ready for a proper tirade and Jaskier is quick to placate him. “It’s just a cold, love. Honestly, I’ll be right as rain before we even reach the keep.”

Geralt is not convinced. “What are your symptoms?”

“Just the cough and the fever.” The lie sits heavily on Jaskier’s chest, but he doesn’t let himself regret it. Geralt might suggest that they rest a while in the cave, or worse, turn back and winter in town. Jaskier won’t be the reason Geralt misses wintering with his family. 

Geralt considers Jaskier’s response for a moment. “Just a cold?” he asks doubtfully.

“Just a cold,” Jaskier confirms, stifling another round of coughs and feeling his chest burn over it.

They leave the cave without any further fuss, but Jaskier can feel Geralt’s eyes linger on him all the while. It’s just a few more days. He’ll manage.

~

Jaskier is ready to drop by the time the keep finally comes into view. 

His limbs ache like he’s run a hundred miles and his shortness of breath has turned into all-out wheezing. He suspects the howl of the wind is the only thing keeping Geralt from hearing him. Every breath tears at his lungs and his heart is racing in his chest. 

Another bought of coughing seizes him and Jaskier has to stop, clutching his chest and willing it to pass. It finally drops off, but Jaskier can’t catch his breath. His head begins to spin and panic swirls in his stomach. He drops to his hands and knees right there in the snow, but it does no good.

He looks ahead through the flurry and sees Geralt, still leading Roach along the obscured path. Jaskier tries to call out, but his cry is cut off by more vicious coughing. His vision blurs. Then the world turns black.

~

Warmth is the first thing Jaskier is aware of. Warmth like a cocoon around him, weighing him down and bundling him tightly. His fingers twitch and he feels soft fur between them.

He opens his eyes. The brightness assails him for a moment, but he adjusts quickly and sees that it isn’t so bright after all. Just the light from a few candles and a large fireplace illuminating the room. It’s rather plain, the most imposing piece of furniture being the large bed in which he lies encased in a nest of furs. 

There’s a soft grunt from Jaskier’s side and he turns his head to see Geralt sat in a chair by the bed watching him. Glaring would be more accurate. Jaskier feels pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. There’s something uneasy in his eyes. Something  _ hurt _ .

For once in their lives, it’s Geralt who speaks first. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

In a similarly uncharacteristic manner, Jaskier finds himself with no response. He shakes free of the blankets and sits up in bed, finding much more strength in him now than his last bought of consciousness.

“You said it was a  _ cold _ , Jaskier. What were you thinking trying to climb a fucking mountain with pneumonia?”

Jaskier looked down at his lap and picked at the blanket, feeling very much like a chastised child. “I didn’t realize it was pneumonia before we started up the mountain,” he mutters.

“Then why didn’t you tell me when you did realize? Why did you wait until you collapsed in the snow and I had to come running back for you thinking you were–” Geralt cuts himself off before he can say it and turns away a moment to compose himself.

“I didn’t want you to make us turn back,” Jaskier admits, drawing Geralt’s gaze back to him. “I know how much you look forward to wintering here, I didn’t want to keep you from it.”

“You think I’d prefer having to bury you here?” asks Geralt.

Jaskier snaps his jaw shut and shudders at the image. Geralt lets out a deep sigh and rises from the chair to settle on the edge of the bed. He frames Jaskier’s face gently with his hands and pulls him in to press a long kiss to his forehead.

“I thought I lost you,” he mumbles into Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier feels his heart leap into his throat and all but falls forward into Geralt’s arms, shoving his face into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs weakly.

Geralt holds him tight and drops soft kisses onto his temple. “I know. Just… don’t ever do that again. Ever. Okay?”

Jaskier lets the familiar warmth and steadiness of Geralt’s embrace sink into his bones and breathes as deep as he can before the edges of a cough claw at his chest. Much deeper than before. He’s still exhausted and his body aches and he guesses the fever is still lingering. But he knows he’ll be alright. He has his Witcher to take care of him.

“Okay,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	14. blank walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 14: "i didn't mean it"  
> tags: post-breakup angst, alcohol mentions

It’s Valentine's day and Geralt is alone.

He can’t even watch shitty romcoms and feel sorry for himself. He still doesn’t have a TV, just an empty stand and a blank wall at the front of his sitting room. Jaskier took the TV when he left. Geralt hasn’t even really considered buying a new one. Some fool part of him still hopes he won’t have to. As if Jaskier would ever consider taking him back after everything he said. 

Because it’s Geralt's own bloody fault of course. He’s the one who exploded on Jaskier for the tiniest thing imaginable and he’s the one who let the whole mess get so out of hand. He’s the one who said Jaskier should just go. And he’s the one who didn’t stop him when he walked out the door.

Geralt didn’t even like Valentine's day before they got together. It was just a stupid marketing ploy to sell heart-shaped candy and over-sized toys to grown adults. But Jaskier  _ loved _ Valentine’s day, stuffed bears and all. He always came up with the tackiest ways to decorate their room, including rose petals. Geralt made fun, but it was hard not to get into it with how happy it made Jaskier.

Now Geralt can’t even go back to indifference to the stupid fucking holiday. He’s just sitting on his couch watching the wall while the beer cans stack up on his coffee table, regretting everything he said. Imagining everything he wishes he could say. He’s always thinking about that these days. What he would say to Jaskier if he saw him.

_ I’m sorry, I miss you, I didn’t mean it, I love you, please come back.  _

It doesn’t matter though. Even if Geralt could muster up the courage to say any of it, he has no idea where Jaskier is right now. Probably out with his friends getting sloppy and making trouble with a smile on his face. Or maybe he’s found someone new to spend the day with. Or just the night. Every possibility keeps him out of Geralt’s reach.

He takes a long pull from his beer, eyes still glued to the empty wall.

~

It’s Valentine’s day and Jaskier is alone.

Sitting on the floor of his new shoebox apartment watching the cars drive by below with a half-full bottle of vodka beside him. It’s still pretty bare in the main room. All he has for furniture is a few folding chairs and his TV set up right there on the floor. 

Essi invited him to go out (apparently their favorite bar is doing half-priced shots for singles), but he turned her down. He doesn’t feel like dressing up and pasting on a fake smile just to get plastered. He can do that just fine at home for a fraction of the price without being felt up on a slippery dance floor.

Yes, Jaskier much prefers to get drunk alone and pine pathetically for a guy who made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with him anymore. He should have seen it coming. He’s always been too much, always pushed too hard, always moved too fast. It was only ever a matter of time. He was a fool to think two good years and an apartment together would make this time any different.

Jaskier thinks about last Valentine’s day. He decked out their bedroom with the ugliest decorations he could find–heart-shaped fairy lights, cupid stickers, candles, pink and red bed sheets, the whole deal. He even made a trail of rose petals from the front door. 

It was the most hideous display yet and he knew Geralt would despise it (Jaskier did a bit himself, to be honest), and he was right, of course. Geralt said it was abhorrent and it would all be in the trash by morning, but he laughed and they kissed and had amazing sex on the garish sheets.

And now Jaskier is alone in an empty four-story walk-up feeling sorry for himself and imagining all the things he could have done differently. Poked and prodded less. Listened more. As if thinking about it would earn him another chance. As if Geralt would give him one.

Geralt is probably glad to be rid of Jaskier’s antics. He didn’t even like Valentine’s day before Jaskier forced it on him. Just another thing he did to push him away.

Jaskier takes another swig from his bottle and the slosh echos off his blank walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	15. don't look back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 15: "run, don't look back"  
> tags: no ship, just geralt and ciri again

Ciri wakes with a jolt to a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes open just in time for their camp to be plunged into darkness as Geralt kicks dirt onto the fire. Her eyes adjust quickly and she sees him stalking quickly around the smoking ring collecting their things and stuffing them into bags.

“What’s happening?” she asks, tumbling out of her bedroll and getting unsteadily to her feet.

“Nilfgaard,” he replies and her heart jumps into her mouth. “They’ve caught us up. They must have a mage with them, we have to move now.”

It’s then that she notices that they’re alone in the little clearing. “Where is Roach?”

“Sent her away. With luck, they’ll follow her trail and keep off yours.” Geralt comes back with one of his bags and secures the strap over Ciri's shoulder. He doesn’t give her a chance to ask what he means before he goes on.

“Listen, straight that way,” he points to her left, “you’ll come to a ledge. Jump off it and there’ll be an overhang. In the far corner, there’s a hidden drop-down that should be large enough for you to hide in. Get inside and stay there.”

She feels her eyes widen. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leading them off,” he says. “I’ll double back when I’ve lost them and come get you.”

“No, you can’t, what if they catch you?” She clutches the strap of the bag to keep her hands from shaking as hard as her voice does.

“They won’t catch me.”

“You don’t know that!” she exclaims. “What am I supposed to do if you get caught?” She’ll be alone. Again. 

Geralt sets his huge hands on her shoulders and looks directly into her eyes. “Look at me. They’re too close and we can’t outrun them ourselves. You have to trust me.”

“But what if–”

“Remember what I said about destiny?” he interjects and Ciri snaps her jaw shut. “I will find you. I will. Now go, run. Don’t look back.”

She hesitates for a moment, but he doesn’t let her linger, shoving her as gently as he can in the direction he pointed to. There’s a gust of wind and a glow of light through the trees behind them and the sound of hooves follow.

“Go!” Geralt shouts and she obeys, tearing off into the trees. She only looks back once, just to catch a glimpse of him, to see which way he goes. Their camp is flooded with mounted soldiers. Geralt is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	16. hold on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 16: broken bones  
> tags: post-kidnapping/torture, Healing Hurts, canon-typical gore, yen and ciri are here too

Geralt doesn’t wait for Yennefer to come around and open the door to the cottage, slamming it in with the heel of his boot and stumbling inside, Jaskier’s weak form cradled to his chest. He’s aware when Yennefer follows him complaining about his brutishness and of her rattling off instructions to Ciri as he charges through the hallway and into the prepared room, but only vaguely. 

Jaskier is trembling like a leaf when Geralt lays him down on the bed and his filthy skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His once delicate silks are little more than rags now and his skin is marred with gashes in various states of healing. Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s foot, still bundled in a torn-off scrap of Yennefer’s skirt. He was watching the door when she wrapped it up, but the glimpse he caught of it was gruesome indeed.

Yennefer enters then, hair pulled back and embroidered sleeves rolled with Ciri in tow carrying a bucket of steaming water. She wastes no time on any of Jaskier’s other injuries, directing Ciri to drop the bucket and the end of the bed and reaching for his leg.

Jaskier writhes as soon as she lays a hand on it, but she keeps him firmly in place. Geralt takes over holding him down so she can continue with the bandage until the leg is revealed. Yennefer sucks in a breath at the sight and Ciri turns away with a hand over her mouth. 

In proper light, it’s even worse than he thought. What skin isn’t covered in dried-up blood is blackened with bruising and red with infection. The wounds here ooze puss and the bones are broken in at least a dozen places, bulging the flesh above.

“Can you fix it?” Geralt asks as Yennefer leans in to inspect the leg.

She sets her jaw and fixes him with a grim look. “If we hurry. The bones are already beginning to set. Sit him up and get behind him. Ciri, pass me the belt off that dresser.”

Geralt maneuvers Jaskier as carefully as he can into a seated position and climbs onto the bed to kneel behind him. Jaskier slumps immediately against his chest, sapped of any strength already. Yennefer approaches with the belt, folded over a few times, in hand and holds it out for Geralt. His throat turns dry as he realizes. 

Geralt takes the belt. “Open your mouth, Jaskier.”

He feels Jaskier try to pull away with a frightened whimper and winces at how easy it is to retrain him. Geralt wraps his free arm securely around Jaskier’s waist and runs his thumb in what he hopes is a soothing rhythm over his side.

“I know, I know, it’s alright,” he says softly, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s temple. Fresh tears make tracks on his grimy cheeks. “It’ll be over soon.”

Geralt doesn’t know how true that is, but Jaskier stops trying to fight him and that’s good enough for now. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, forcing more tears from them, and slowly, slowly opens his mouth. 

Once the belt is between Jaskier’s teeth, Geralt wraps him up with both arms and looks down the bed to Yennefer. She turns to Ciri who is pale as a sheet and nudges her towards the door. “Go on,” she says.

Ciri looks like she wants to argue, but her eyes fall upon Jaskier’s leg one more time and she keeps her silence. She looks up at Geralt and at his nod, leaves the room shutting the door behind her.

“Ready?” Yennefer asks. Geralt tightens his grip. Jaskier nods shakily. She raises her hands over the leg and begins to murmur under her breath.

The effect is instant, like lighting a match. Jaskier’s strength returns from nowhere and he strains against Geralt’s hold, arching his back and twisting however he can. Strangled cries escape around the belt, ringing in Geralt’s ears.

Geralt holds him as firmly as he dares, as much as he thinks he can before he begins to do more harm than good. Jaskier claws at his arms with broken nails, but Geralt does not relent. He adjusts his position and throws his own leg over Jaskier’s thigh to keep him in place.

The bones arrange themselves slowly, shifting under Jaskier’s skin as Yennefer directs them. Jaskier’s screams echo in Geralt’s skull and the sour, stinging scents of fear and pain fill his nose. He feels his own blood begin to drip down his arms in tiny streams where Jaskier digs in. 

He closes his eyes and holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	17. steady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 17: field surgery  
> tags: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, Healing Hurts

For the first time in nearly a decade, Geralt is genuinely glad that Jaskier insisted on following him into the wilderness after explicit instructions to stay put. The fiend he was contracted for led them more than a day’s ride from civilization before it finally stopped to rest and by the looks of the wound in his side, he doesn’t have a day to wait for help.

It was his own damn fault. He misjudged the fiend's movements by little more than a hair, but it was enough to land him within goring distance. The horn pierced him low on his left side, just above his hip, giving him an opening to bury his sword in its skull. Which was all well and good, until its head jerked in its death-throes and he heard a sickening crack. 

The fiend fell to the ground, taking its horn with it, but the once-pointed end was splintered and covered in blood. Geralt tried to grope for it himself, but nothing was protruding from his skin to grab onto. There was no way he could reach in at that angle and pull the bit of horn out himself. The bard’s intransigence was finally going to pay off.

The man in question is whistling to himself and warming his socked feet by the fire when Geralt stumbles into camp, clutching his side. The pain has dulled to a steady throb, but his head is beginning to spin from blood loss. He drops to his knees in the grass and Jaskier’s cheery tune dies on his lips.

“What happened?” he asks, crossing the clearing in a few long strides and kneeling at Geralt’s side. 

“Help me get this off,” Geralt replies, ignoring the question and tugging at the straps of his armor. His arms feel heavy and his movements sluggish. Jaskier bats them out of the way and makes quick work of it, unfastening each buckle and clasp with practiced hands.

Once the leather is out of the way, Jaskier yanks up Geralt's shirt to reveal the would and gasps at the sight. It isn’t as bad as Geralt expected. Not good, but it could be worse. Though it could be the blood obscuring the worst of it, he supposes.

“Jaskier,” Geral begins, but the bard’s eyes are fixed on the hole in his side. “There’s something in the wound. A piece of horn, I don’t know how big.”

That get’s his attention. He looks up at Geralt with wide eyes. “Do you have a potion for that?”

“No,” Geralt grumbles rolling his eyes. “You have to pull it out.”

“ _ What? _ ” Jaskier gapes. “No, no, no, I can’t do that, absolutely not.”

“It’s that or I bleed out right here!” Geralt wasn’t planning on dying today, but if this is where the ‘bonds of friendship’ end for Jaskier, then so be it.

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut and he swallows hard. His eyes well up, but he takes deliberately slow breaths to calm himself. Geralt feels a twinge of guilt at his harshness. Jaskier probably wasn’t planning on performing surgery today either.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” Geralt says, softer now. “You just reach in, grab it, and pull it out the way it went in. It’ll be easy.” Not entirely true, but it’ll do for now.

“I– I can’t do this, Geralt,” says Jaskier shakily. 

Geralt reaches out for one of Jaskier's hands and squeezes it until it stops trembling. “Yes you can,” he says.  _ You have to,  _ he leaves out.

Jaskier takes a few deep breaths, sets his jaw, and nods stiffly. Geralt lets out a little sigh of relief and lays down on his good side. As soon as he’s down, he feels the urge to close his eyes, sleep tugging him under. They need to be quick.

“Do I just…” Jaskier gestures in the general direction of the wound.

Geralt nods. “Try to keep your hands steady. Don’t shift anything around.”

“What happens if I do?”

“Don’t.”

Jaskier gulps and turns his attention to the wound. Geralt tries to watch in case he needs any guidance, but as soon as Jaskier’s fingers make contact with his skin, pain lances through him like fire. He bites down on a cry and buries his fingers in the dirt for something to hold onto.

“Sorry,” Jaskier mutters. Then, “I think I found it!”

“Good. Now, ju-ust– just. Pull it out. Straight as you can.” 

Geralt can only be grateful that it isn’t deep as Jaskier fishes around under his skin for purchase on the horn. He can’t help the hisses and groans that leave him anymore. Jaskier appears to be holding his breath entirely.

“Got it,” Jaskier gasps, and Geralt looks down to see his hand covered in blood, but holding the horn, no longer than his index finger. “Now what?”

“Clean and sew. I can–” Geralt means to say he can handle the rest, but Jaskier stops him with a stern look.

“Don’t you dare. This bit, I can manage just fine.”

Geralt doesn’t say so, but he’s glad of the offer (or instruction). He feels better already with the intruding object removed, but he’s still weak without a good portion of his blood. This part is much more familiar for both of them. Jaskier wiping away his blood and sewing him up is almost routine.

Jaskier has him sit up once the stitches are finished so he can wrap his waist with a thick bandage. He pulls it tight, but not too tight, just like Geralt taught him. Better, actually. He’s getting quite good at this. Geralt means to tell him so, to make a joke of it, but Jaskier straightens up just then and the words disappear from his mind. They’re nearly nose to nose like this. Geralt sees nothing but blue.

“Not bad for my first go as a surgeon,” Jaskier says with a tired smile. Geralt reaches blindly for his hand and ends up with his knee. He squeezes it anyway.

“You did well.”

They sit silently for a few long moments before the fire pops loudly, breaking the little atmosphere that gathered around them. Jaskier leans back, and Geralt finds himself missing the proximity. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

As Jaskier gets up, Geralt thinks he sees a blush painted across his cheeks. It could be the light. He isn’t sure which one he hopes for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	18. i'm here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 18: "i can't see"  
> tags: continuation of day 6 but can stand alone, panic attacks, anxiety induced blindness, hurt/comfort

A headache is starting at the back of Jaskier’s skull by the time they finally make camp. The sky churned all day with clouds ripe for rain and Geralt pushed them harder than he usually did in hopes of finding somewhere sheltered to sleep before dark. He looks apologetic as he goes in search of firewood. Jaskier isn’t upset with him. He understands.

And it paid off in the end. They found a shallow cave to keep them dry. Jaskier sits with his back to one of the stone walls and shuts his eyes, just to rest them. He didn’t get much sleep last night. Not that he ever gets any sleep. Last night was particularly unpleasant, though.

He gave up eventually, resolving instead to watch Geralt breathe until the sun came up. The images that plagued him lingered in his mind all through the night and their trudge through the forest. Dark rooms and echoes of his screams on stone. He opens his eyes and suppresses a shudder.

Geralt isn’t back yet and Jaskier finds himself glad of it for a brief moment. Guilt follows. It’s not that he isn’t grateful for Geralt. He’s been Jaskier’s rock these past weeks, the only thing keeping his head above water at times. 

But Geralt worries. He worries and Jaskier feels his eyes on him as they walk, waiting for him to stumble or ask for a break. He worries and Jaskier sees him set aside an extra portion that he knows Jaskier won't eat. He worries and it makes Jaskier so conscious of all the ways he isn’t himself anymore.

Jaskier doesn’t want him to stop worrying, necessarily. He knows that’s too much to ask. But the worry being temporarily out of sight is a weight off of Jaskier’s shoulders in a way that makes him feel like the worst man alive. 

His headache creeps up the back of his skull and stretches to his temples. His legs are bothering him too, sore from the walk. And his chest feels a bit tight. He won’t tell Geralt, he thinks. It'd just be another thing for him to worry about.

Geralt returns with wood for the fire and a hare for supper. Jaskier wishes he felt more hungry. After such a long day, Geralt will want him to eat and he’ll worry if he doesn’t. Jaskier tries on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The tightness in his chest grows.

They don’t speak while Geralt starts the fire and unpacks what he needs for cooking. They do a lot of this these days, sitting in silence. Jaskier never feels up to his usual chatter and Geralt isn't exactly a talker. It’s a heavy sort of quiet, the kind that makes them both uneasy. Jaskier’s headache wraps around his forehead.

Geralt pulls out the knife he uses for skinning and inspects the blade. He must decide that it’s dull because he takes out his whetstone next. Jaskier winces at the first scrape of the blade and he thinks it’s just his headache, but the sound bounces off his skull. The scrape comes again, echoing off the stone walls of the cave, like… like…

_ The scrape of a blade coated in his blood. The scrape of chains holding him to the cold, moist floor. The scrape of prison bars opening and shutting and in between, his screams echo off the walls. _

Jaskier's chest feels too small for his lungs, like they’re straining against his ribs for air. His heart pounds in his ears and his head throbs with each thump.

“Jas?” says Geralt from beside him and he sounds worried and Jaskier  _ hates  _ it. And he hates himself because what kind of person feels that way about a show of caring from someone they love? What is  _ wrong  _ with him?

He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t stand the feeling of his own skin on his bones. The edges of his vision begin to cloud and he wonders if he’s going to pass out, but the blurriness just thickens until… 

“I– I can’t see.” His voice is a croak in his ears. He blinks again and again, but his vision doesn’t clear. It’s not dark, or light, it’s  _ nothing _ . “I can’t– Geralt, I can’t see!”

Jaskier hears shuffling, then familiar fabric under his outstretched hands. He curls his fingers in Geralt’s shirt, clutching it like a lifeline. Geralt’s hands cradle his face, tipping his head this way and that.

“What– Why can’t I see? What’s happening to me?” Jaskier asks between gasping breaths, still struggling to fill his lungs.

“I don’t know,” says Geralt in a soothing tone. His thumb sweeps over Jaskier’s cheek, wiping away tears he didn’t know he shed. “I don’t know, but you need to calm down.”

Anger rises in Jaskier’s chest at that.  _ Calm down? _ He’s going fucking blind and Geralt wants him to  _ calm down _ ? He can’t manage more than a frustrated growl in response.

Geralt removes a hand from his face and uses it to unravel his shirt from Jaskier’s fingers. He flattens Jaskier’s palm on his chest, right over his heart. It beats slow and steady against his hand. He feels the rise and fall with Geralt’s deliberately deep, even breaths.

“Just breathe,” Geralt says softly. He puts his hand back on Jaskier’s face and draws their foreheads together. “I’m here.”

Jaskier wants to scream, but he bites down on the urge.  _ Breathe _ . He tries to focus on himself, and when that doesn’t work, he tries to focus on Geralt. The warmth where their skin touches. His familiar scent. Steady beats. Rise and fall. 

He closes his helpless eyes. He breathes.

~

It’s hours before Jaskier's sight returns. The first thing he sees is Geralt’s face frowning at him. The worried wrinkle of his brow still twists Jaskier’s stomach, but just then, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	19. date night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 19 (alt. 9): gunpoint  
> tags: modern continent, established relationship, gun violence, witcher-related bigotry

It’s date night, and Geralt has a really bad feeling. He can’t pin it down, but from the second Jaskier came home early suggesting they go out, something has been crawling under his skin. He almost says something, asks if they can’t just stay in tonight. 

He doesn’t, though. Jaskier is so excited, rambling on about how long it’s been since they had a night out and how busy he’s been with work. How this is just what he needs, a chance to relax and spend time together. 

So Geralt swallows his bad feeling. He smiles and puts on his going-out-jeans, the ones with fashionable holes rather than work-related ones. He tells himself he’s just being paranoid, that there’s nothing to worry about. That they’ll go out and have a lovely time and Jaskier will be happy.

He’s nearly convinced himself by the time they get to the bar. It’s not far from their building, a place they’ve been to a few times. Geralt likes it because it’s not too loud and Jaskier likes it because it’s lively enough that he doesn’t feel like the loudest person in the room. The prices are a bit steep, but it's worth it for an atmosphere they can both tolerate for more than one drink.

It’s Friday night, so it’s already busy, but they find a high-top table at the edge of the room to settle at. The waitress smiles easily at them and something uncurls in Geralt's gut. It’s not like he thought she would be rude, they’ve never had a problem here before, but he feels relieved anyway. Old habit.

Though, evidently, not an obsolete one. They’ve barely finished ordering when someone starts shouting from across the room. “Serving his kind, are we? S’that what the world’s come to?” 

The waitress whips around and the chatter in the bar dies down as people turn to look. Jaskier is already making to stand, but Geralt lays a hand on his thigh and levels him with a look.  _ No trouble tonight _ , it says. Jaskier keeps his seat, but his glare says he isn’t happy about it.

“I’m talking to you, you piss-eyed fuck.” 

The crowd parts and a group of stumbling drunks, maybe five, emerge with the loudmouth out front. It’s almost silent in the room now. Geralt feels dozens of eyes on him, watching and waiting. No one speaks up, no one intervenes. Everyone wants to see what the big bad Witcher will do. 

Loudmouth sneers and walks right up to their table, leaning on one of the empty chairs. The waitress jumps back clutching her little notebook. Geralt feels Jaskier tense every muscle in his body as if it were his own and tightens his grip on his thigh. The feeling crawls back under his skin.  _ No trouble.  _

“Thing I can’t understand is how they just let you walk around,” says Loud-mouth. His words are practically glued together. “Should at least have muzzles or something.” His buddies laugh raucously.

Geralt knows what Jaskier is going to say before he says it, and the squeeze on his leg doesn’t stop him. “And I can’t understand how your mother didn’t smother you in your sleep, but then I suppose mysteries are a natural part of life.”

Deathly silence follows. Loudmouth’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t do more to acknowledge Jaskier’s existence. They get this every now and then, too. The only thing worse than a mutant is someone who would willingly be with one. 

“You and your pet aren’t wanted here,” Loudmouth snarls. The only thing that keeps Geralt in his seat is the sight of the owner pushing through the crowd behind them.

“Speak for yourself,” says the owner, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s older, balding on top. Geralt thinks his name is Dan–he’d waited on them once a while back.

Loudmouth makes a sloppy about-face and his entourage follows suit. “Throwing your lot in with the likes of that?”

“I’m throwing my lot in with paying customers who don’t make a scene and harass my other customers. Now, you go sleep it off before you find yourself barred from this establishment.” 

It seems like Loudmouth is ready to argue, but one of his cronies claps him on the shoulder and the moment is broken. He turns back to their table for one last glare before the group of them make for the door. The room exhales and chatter resumes with relative ease. Geralt sees Dan give him a nod and he returns it.

Jaskier grips his arm firmly and runs a soothing hand up and down his bicep. “Are you alright? We can go if you want,” he says, concern creasing his brow. 

Geralt takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I’m fine. We should stay.” It’s not often a stranger sticks up for them and it would be a shame to waste it. Besides, the worst has certainly passed. And after all that, he’d be damned if they didn’t get their night out.

“You’re sure? I don’t mind, we have alcohol at home.” 

Geralt smiles, just a curve of his lips, and leans in to kiss Jaskier's cheek. “I’m sure.”

They actually do have a lovely time. The waitress tells them their first drink is on the house and someone sends a plate of fries to their table, the curly ones that Jaskier thinks are superior for some reason and will not accept criticism of. They don’t get  _ that  _ drunk, but by the time the bill is paid, Jaskier is giggling like a teenager and Geralt is more than a little tipsy.

Geralt feels good, that nasty feeling from earlier completely forgotten. Jaskier is plastered to his side, holding his hand and grinning. Happy just like Geralt hoped he would be. Geralt is looking at him. That’s why he doesn’t see the figures waiting for them as they pass a narrow ally until they’re being grabbed and shoved into the shadows.

It’s Loudmouth and two more from the bar, armed with lengths of pipe. Apparently, sobriety sturred them to assault and battery. Geralt hears the ring of a pipe making contact with something solid and Jaskier’s choked off cry while dodging a swing himself.

Even halfway to drunk, Geralt makes quick work of the first two, knocking one out cold with his own pipe and sending the other running back down the ally with an undignified whimper. He spins around on his heel for Loudmouth and freezes in his tracks.

Jaskier is on his knees with his hands in the air and terror in his eyes. Loudmouth has him by the collar of his jacket. There’s a gun in his hand aimed at the back of Jaskier’s head. Geralt puts his own hands up in a placating gesture.

“Don’t hurt him,” he says as calmly as he can manage.

“No?” asks Loudmouth with a sickening smirk. He pushes Jaskier’s head forward with the muzzle of the gun and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Geralt can hear the frightened sound he tries to swallow. 

“No,” Loudmouth repeats, less a question and more of a statement. “Not his fault some mutant scum is stringing him along. Why don't I just hurt you?” He raises the gun from Jaskier without releasing him and trains it on Geralt.

Of all the ways Geralt thought he might die, shot in a shit-stained ally by a drunk bigot was never on his radar. He’s not bothered by that so much as the thought of Jaskier having to watch. He deserves so much better than this. Geralt just hopes Jaskier has the good sense to run while Loudmouth is distracted.

But Jaskier’s not satisfied with that, of course, he isn’t. He never could just let things be. He reaches behind him, under his jacket and Geralt’s heart stops.

Jaskier has his gun. Geralt insisted on it a few years ago after a string of death threats for the both of them. They spent weeks searching for the right one, getting permits, taking lessons, going to target practice. It was small, easy to conceal, and easier to handle. In this moment, Geralt has never regretted anything more in his life.

Loudmouth sees Jaskier moving and turns back to him. Jaskier is quick, he’s already got his little pistol out of its holster. Geralt feels like a statue, rooted in place with no power to do anything but watch.

A shot rings out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	20. ivy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 20: betrayal  
> tags: modern au, infedelity (not against each other), mentions of mentally/emotionally abusive relationship (not theirs)

It’s a nice spring afternoon. Sunny, but still with a faint chill from the morning’s rain. The window is cracked to let in the fresh air and a shaft of yellow light falls over the rumpled bedding. Jaskier looks like a damn oil painting in it, all golden and soft with the sheets covering just enough.

Anywhere else, it would be an image of perfection. But no matter how many times Geralt comes here, everything around him feels alien. The pillow his head rests on smells like someone else’s shampoo. There are bits on the bedside table that don’t belong to him. The closet, the drawers, all full of reminders that he doesn’t belong here. Only Jaskier is remotely welcoming. The only thing even close to his.

Even that is debatable. Publicly,  _ legally _ , Jaskier is promised to someone else. Before long, Geralt will slip out the back where the neighbors can’t see and Jaskier will do whatever it is he does to erase any sign of them from the room. He’ll probably shower, change the sheets. Put his ring back on.

Jaskier would tell him not to think about that, to not spoil their little window with such unpleasantness. Geralt wishes he could forget. Wishes he could just be here in the moment and enjoy Jaskier and being with him. But the last few weeks have been so much harder.

Twenty-three days ago (yes, Geralt has been counting), Jaskier told him he was ready to leave his loveless marriage. From the beginning, Geralt tried to be realistic. He knew where he stood and he knew better than to ask Jaskier to be his– _ just  _ his. Even after Geralt knew he was well and truly  _ ridiculously  _ in love, he would never have asked it. 

But when Jaskier sat on his bed in his dump of an apartment and told him what he wanted to do twenty-three days ago, Geralt was nothing short of elated. He smiled and he laughed and they kissed and they fucked and they were so happy.  _ Geralt  _ was so happy.

But that was twenty-three days ago. Today, Geralt is lying in another man’s bed while the love of his life draws little spirals on his cheek with his fingers. Geralt captures those fingers and presses his lips to each one. Jaskier smiles. Then the smile fades.

“You should probably go soon, darling,” he says.

Geralt’s heart drops like a stone. “I thought he was working late.”

“He is. Just… can’t be too careful.” Jaskier looks down at his chest, avoiding Geralt’s eye.

Geralt lets silence linger for few moments before he sighs heavily and speaks. “Jas–”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Jaskier interjects sharply. His brow furrows and he keeps his gaze pointedly downward.

Geralt lets out a frustrated groan and sits up. “When  _ are  _ we going to talk about it?”

“Since when do you want to talk about anything?”

“Don’t,” Geralt warns. He’s been supportive and he’s been patient, but it’s been twenty-three fucking days and he can’t  _ take  _ this anymore.

Jaskier doesn’t reply but with a clenched jaw so Geralt goes on. “You said you were ready to leave him weeks ago and now every time I bring it up, you change the subject. I don’t understand. If you…” 

Geralt lets himself drop off, hesitant to voice the thought. He swallows hard, braces himself. “If you’ve changed your mind, just tell me.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, finally meeting Geralt’s eye.

“Then why am I still sneaking in the back door?” Geralt asks, softer now. “I need you to talk to me.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and breathes deeply before he says his next words. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Geralt feels anger rise in his chest. “Of him?”

“Of everything!” Jaskier exclaims, sitting up himself. “Do you think he’ll be happy about it? ‘Hello dear, how was work, I’m having an affair and also I want a divorce’–how would you react? And I’ve never been on my own before, I don’t even know if I could. I can barely cook and I’m terrible with money, I’ll probably be out on the streets within a month.”

The words fly with increasing speed and volume as they tend to do when Jaskier is agitated. Geralt hears echoes of someone else’s words in his mouth. Years of assurances that he’d never be worth a thing on his own battering him down until he actually believed them.

“I’m afraid to be alone.” The admission is so small, so quiet that Geralt almost misses it entirely. He shuffles as close to Jaskier as he can and grips his hands tightly.

“You will not be alone,” Geralt says firmly, looking Jaskier directly in the eye. “I’ll teach you how to cook, we’ll take a financial literacy course, and if you still end up on the street, you can stay with me or Pris or Essi, whatever you need. We’ll take care of you.”

Jaskier just stares at him for a moment, eyes wide like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Geralt wants to wipe that shock away, to tell Jaskier how much he deserves every bit of their devotion, but before he can think about forming the words, Jaskier’s lips are on his and the kiss feels like a promise.

Geralt pulls away first, just far enough to rake in air. Their foreheads are pressed together and their noses bump and Geralt sees nothing but bright blue eyes. 

“I love you,” Jaskier breathes, cradling Geralt’s face with his hands. “So, so much.”

Geralt covers Jaksier’s hands with his own. “I love you too.”

“I’ll do it tonight. I’ll tell him. I will.” 

Geralt’s breath catches in his chest. He wants to believe it so, so badly. In place of a reply, he drags Jaskier into another kiss, lowering them back down to bed, all thoughts of retreat forgotten. Geralt doesn’t know what will happen tonight after he slips out the back; if Jaskier will leave his ring on the table and let Geralt’s cologne linger on his skin. 

He doesn’t know. But he can hold Jaskier close and try to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)  
> (yeah, the title is a taylor swift song, what of it)


	21. again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 21 (alt. 7): time travel  
> tags: established relationship, time loop, canon-typical gore, temporary character death

Jaskier thinks he might be losing his fucking mind.

This makes forty-six times, he thinks. It’s getting harder to keep track, but he’s almost sure that he’s lived this very day forty-six times. Again, and again, and again, and he can’t figure out where he’s going wrong.

Every morning when he wakes up, he almost forgets for a moment. He keeps his eyes shut and he can pretend for a bit that this is a new day. But it never lasts. He lays there in his warm bed for no more than a handful of minutes before Geralt’s lips find his neck and long hair tickles his chest and arms wrap him up to hold him close.

And every morning, he wants to be happy. Happy to be so loved. But how can he when he knows what he knows?

He knows that this perfect morning will end and they’ll be forced to leave the room. He knows that breakfast will be shit, but Geralt won’t mind because someone will come up with a job and a hefty purse for it. He knows that they’ll spend the day at the market stocking up for their departure after the job is done. He knows that Geralt will surprise him with the little silver pocket charm Jaskier fawned over the day before, a delicately crafted wolf no larger than a thimble; "it’s meant to bring you luck," he'll say.

Jaskier knows that Geralt will leave for the job at sunset. And he knows that he won’t come back. A traveler will come into the tavern and announce to everyone that he’s just come across the most horrid scene–a man with white hair gored to death in the woods. Then the world will start to spin and before Jaskier knows it, he’ll be in bed again.

Jaskier has tried everything. 

He’s begged Geralt not to go, but he won’t be swayed, refusing to let such a large sum pass them by. He promised that Jaskier had nothing to worry about and that he would be back soon. Promised to buy them a long stay in the next city with his earnings.

He’s convinced Geralt to leave town early, but it didn’t do any good. If they could avoid the contractor downstairs and get away, the world still spun when nightfall came. Whatever curse this was could not be escaped by running.

He’s gone on the hunt with Geralt, but there was nothing he could do. Just watch and wait and cradle Geralt’s head in his lap as he bled to death.

Telling Geralt what’s going on doesn’t make any difference. They can never work out what’s causing the loop and Jaskier still wakes up in the same damn bed. Nothing ever helps, no matter what he does or where he goes, he ends up reliving the worst day of his life over and over.

The last go was particularly unpleasant. Jaskier woke up in bed, same as always, but he felt like he was coming apart from the inside out. Geralt barely touched him, but it was enough to tear through whatever strength he had left in him. He burst into complete hysterics, unable to form a single coherent word. 

Geralt let him curl up in his lap and sob into his chest. He gave up asking what the matter was after a while. Jaskier did try to tell him, if only to stop him from looking so stricken with worry and fear, but any attempt to put the previous forty-four days into words reduced him to a puddle again.

He eventually cried himself out and he was so exhausted that he let Geralt get up to find him something to eat and drink. He fell asleep while he was away and roused to a knock at the door. It was the inn-keeper. They’d heard screams coming from the forest, a traveler attacked by some sort of beast. Geralt went to help. He didn’t come back.

Jaskier woke up in bed again. He’s still enjoying the handful of minutes where he can pretend that it’s a new day. His eyes are open this time, staring up at the ceiling. He feels knuckles brush along his jaw and turns his head towards them.

It’s always sunny, these mornings. No inkling of the dark things to come. Geralt’s eyes are so gorgeous when the sunshine hits them right, almost molten the way they glow. He would blush if Jaskier said so, then shove a pillow in his face and insist that he does  _ not  _ blush.

Jaskier reaches out and brushes a thumb under one of those eyes. Maybe he can convince Geralt to stay in bed today. The world will surely spin come the night, but he could have today. Geralt covers Jaskier’s hand with his own and stills its movements.

“Alright?” he asks softly.

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath. He’s never been less alright in his entire life. He feels no saner now than he did the last time they lived through this morning, but he knows he won’t fall apart the way he did before. He had his moment of weakness. 

“If I asked you to stay here in bed with me all day today, would you?” He wishes his voice was steadier. 

Geralt sighs the way he does when he wants to say no gently. Before he can speak, Jaskier cuts in with a whispered, pleading “Please?”

He must look as weak and weary as he feels. Being pitiful has never once worked Geralt, but something must have swayed him this time because, after a long pause, he says, “Okay.”

Jaskier lets his eyes close and breathes a sigh of relief. Next time, he’ll get back to trying to solve this. He’ll gather his wits and stop at nothing until they see a new day dawn. But this time, on the forty-sixth go, he will rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	22. compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 22: burned  
> tags: established relationship, whumpy premise with a fluffy ending

“I’m sorry.” It feels like Jaskier’s hundredth apology within the hour. For all the good it’s done him. 

They’ve been steeped in silence beside his many pleas since arriving at the inn. Geralt has, of course, never been a talker, but this bout is particularly pointed. He hasn’t looked up from where he is crouched over Jaskier’s hands once.

It’s his fault, Jaskier knows that. He was specifically instructed  _ not  _ to follow Geralt on this contract, that a chimera was nothing to mess about with. He was told, he agreed, and he snuck out anyway. Hardly dignified to describe his movements as sneaking, he isn't a schoolboy escaping his lessons, after all. But he gave his word and he freely admits to breaking it. And it isn’t often he admits fault.

Geralt is, evidently, unimpressed by his humility. Which is fair, Jaskier supposes. He thinks of the look on Geralt’s face as Jaskier screamed, clutching his hands to his chest while his sleeves still smoldered. Geralt dispatched the chimera with all due haste, and no small degree of ferocity, but the damage was done.

It could have been much worse, Jaskier is sure of it. He’s retained the use of all his fingers, red and blistered as they are. He won’t be able to play for some time; Geralt had to help him undress as his poor hands are useless with the buttons and laces. The skin is stinging and sensitive to the lightest touch, but much improved now with the cooling salve Geralt gently coated them in. He’s finishing now with the bandages, tying off the last a hand’s length up Jaskier’s wrist.

“Geralt–” he tries, but he gets no further.

“Stop apologizing,” Geralt grunts firmly. He looks up at last and folds Jaskier’s carefully wrapped hands in his own. “Your hands are your livelihood. You’ve compromised your ability to feed and clothe yourself and you are lucky it was just your hands. You could have been killed. I don’t tell you to keep away for my health or to spite you.”

“I know,” Jaskier mutters, turning his own eyes down now. 

Geralt dips his head to capture Jaskier’s gaze again before he speaks. “If you know, then why do you ignore me?”

“Why do you insist on treating me like an incompetent child?” Jaskier shoots back, not caring at all for the tone of this conversation. “You can impart your superior knowledge without being condescending about it. I accept fault for this, truly. But I’m a grown man, if you treat me like one, I can decide for myself what is best for me.”

Geralt furrows his brow and hums in a displeased manner, but he doesn’t argue. He’s getting better at this–considering his thoughts before attempting to turn them into words. It takes a while sometimes, but Jaskier has been working on his patience as well. 

“I don’t mean to treat you like a child,” Geralt says at last. “I mean to keep you safe.”

Jaskier leans in a bit, unable to offer his usual caresses. “I know you do, love. And I’m grateful. Perhaps we both have things to consider here. You could be more communicative–”

“And you could be less belligerent,” Geralt finishes for him, a playful grin on his lips.

Jaskier is tempted to feign offense but decides against it. There’s been enough bother for one day. Instead, he smiles himself. “I’ll allow that in light of the circumstances,” he says. “Now, I’m hurt and pitiful. Feel free to tend to me in any way you see fit.”

Geralt huffs a laugh and bends his head to kiss the skin just above Jaskier’s bandages. “I suppose I could so that. In light of the circumstances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	23. montrous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 23 (alt. 4): identity reveal  
> tags: incubus!jaskier, hurt/comfort

Jaskier enjoyed, in his view, a very pleasant childhood. Indeed, one would be hard-pressed to find fault with it, truth be told. He and his troupe of sisters wanted for nothing in their castle by the sea and explored its grounds with more freedom than most children of such noble birth.

His father was distant but never unkind, and his position afforded him the ability to provide a comfortable life for Jaskier and his sisters. His mother was his favorite person in all the world. Visitors, eager in their flattery, always noted that it was no mystery how the Viscountess secured such a fortunate match for herself. She was beautiful to be sure, but far more notable to Jaskier was her infinite capacity for kindness, infectious warmth, and lively disposition. 

The Viscount seemed to share the sentiment; theirs was a love match if ever there had been one. Though not one for affectionate displays, he doted on his wife and all five of their children. They were a perfect family, picturesque by all accounts and happy to be so.

Yes, Jaskier’s upbringing was quite ideal. But all seemingly perfect things must be revealed to have a flaw sooner or later. It was Jaskier’s most unfortunate ordeal to be theirs.

He was sixteen when it started. Not a fortnight past his birthday, he was struck by a dreadful illness; overcome with intolerable headaches, cold sweats, spasm-like chills, and a terrible fever. His parents sent for all manner of experts, but none could make sense of his condition, warning them to prepare for the worst. It was only after weeks of wallowing that something finally happened. Little nubs began to grow from the crown of Jaskier's head. Horns.

His mother sent all the physicians and healers and wise-women away at once, setting a guard outside his door and declaring that absolutely no one was to enter under any circumstances. Once the keep was clear of wandering eyes and prying ears, she came to him with an ancient-looking book and small box wrapped in brown paper. 

She set the things aside and told him a story.

When she was young, scarcely older than him, she attended a grand festival with her family. At this gathering, she became acquainted with a mysterious gentleman, hailing from parts unknown. He was strikingly handsome and disarmingly charming, she said, and he had eyes only for her that night. She was so enraptured with him, that she did something no respectable lady ought to do.

The gentleman disappeared with the festivities and his mother returned home, intent on forgetting all about him. She met a young Viscount not long after and was quite taken with him, and he with her. They were well on their way to love when she discovered the souvenir the strange gentleman had left her. She was with child.

Overcome with fear, she admitted her situation to her suitor, and the Viscount in his kindness (and certainly mad with love), proposed to her on the spot. He offered her and her child his protection and discretion; they would claim the baby was his and be done with it.

Jaskier was, at that point, nearly faint with shock. But that was not all. When his mother was all but ready to pop, the mysterious gentleman from the festival sought her out. He’d heard of her pregnancy and evidently was perfectly able to count. It was then that he presented her with the very book and box she’d brought to Jaskier and told her the truth of his nature.

He was an incubus. And there was no small chance that their child would be one as well. The book, he’d said, was a bestiary that would give Jaskier all the practical knowledge he would need to navigate his existence. The contents of the box would supposedly protect him, though the gentleman declined to elaborate.

The illness indicating Jaskier’s change passed within a week of his horns appearing and the gentleman’s gifts were indeed of great use to him. The box contained a ring that served to conceal his new physical attributes–namely the horns, but also a noticeable sharpening of his teeth and nails. The book instructed him to…  _ satisfy _ his needs at least once a season.

Life went on much the same as it had before, despite Jaskier's newfound knowledge. His mother swore him to secrecy for his own safety, even from his sisters; they would never harm him, she knew, but the fewer people aware, the better. His father, the Viscount, was ignorant of it as well by Jaskier’s request.

The world spun on. Jaskier went away to school, fell in love with the art of performance, and took the road to spread his musical genius. Involving himself with a Witcher was admittedly one of his more impulsive and self-destructive actions, but if a bloody monster hunter couldn’t sniff him out, he felt he could rest easy. No one knew, and no one ever would. Promise kept.

Falling in love with said Witcher, however, was just plain foolish. 

Jaskier didn’t even realize it at first. He thought his needs were just growing stronger for whatever reason. A hormonal imbalance perhaps. But however many partners he pulled from, the ache of want was never satisfied. It’s almost embarrassing, he thinks, for a poet to have taken so long to see it.

Of course, even when he did work it out, it hardly mattered. Geralt would never want him that way, and even if he did, that would change as soon as he learned the truth. He would never be with someone like Jaskier; it was against his very nature, all that he knew. 

In his more maudlin moods, Jaskier wondered if his horns could be mashed up into a potion of some sort, or what kind of price his sharp teeth would fetch to the right buyer. He knew Geralt would never hack him up like that, not without cause, but his morbid curiosity didn’t care much for the fact.

But none of it mattered! Geralt wouldn’t get the chance to hack him up regardless because Jaskier was not  _ ever  _ going to tell him. He would stew in his desire until it faded away and his secret would remain just that. It was a nonissue, all of it.

Until it wasn’t, of course. Because by Jaskier’s astounding luck (or lack thereof depending on one’s prerogative), his unrequited feelings turned out to be much less so than he thought. Not at all, really. They were, in fact,  _ very _ requited.

And Jaskier was absolutely overjoyed, overtaken with happiness. Geralt kissed him and kissed him and  _ kissed  _ him, and he had never been more content in all his life. That is until Geralt reached for the fastenings of his trousers. Jaskier froze there and then. He played it off reasonably well, citing his fatigue–he had almost been consumed by a large beast just hours before, after all–but he didn’t sleep a wink that night. 

He would not, could not, be with Geralt in that way with his secret between them. It wasn’t that he was unable to be intimate with someone without pulling from them–he could and had many times before. But this was more than a one-off, much more. This wasn’t something Jaskier felt he could keep from someone _more._ It was precisely what had kept him from such commitment in that past. 

There was nothing for it. He had to tell Geralt the truth or let him go. In all likelihood, he’d have to do both.

Jaskier put it off for as long as possible with a litany of excuses. First with his exhaustion, then with a phony upset stomach which bought him a few more days. Geralt started looking suspicious when Jaskier claimed he wanted their first time to be in a real bed–admittedly a stretch. He knew he was being foolish. He just wanted a bit of time to prepare himself. And if he was going to lose the best thing that ever happened to him, he would do it in his own time.

But eventually, Geralt would be stalled no further. A bed was available, Jaskier was well-rested, and his stomach was appeased. But still, he hesitated. The last few days were suddenly not enough and he made a last-stitched play for more. Geralt was not fooled and demanded to know what the matter was.

Jaskier sat them down on the bed facing each other, crisscrossed and knees bumping, and removed his ring. Then, he told Geralt everything.

He finished a while ago now, but Geralt is still silent, staring wide-eyed at some distant point to the left. Jaskier picks nervously at his nails, now sharpened to short, perfectly manicured claws. He hasn’t taken his ring off in at least a few years and his neck is beginning to ache a bit under the unusual weight of his horns which curve down by his ears.

“Geralt, please say something,” Jaskier pleas weakly, unable to tolerate it another moment. Geralt lets another beat of nothing pass before he speaks.

“Have you ever hurt anyone?”

Jaskier replies at once, “No, never. I’m very careful, and I only pull from people when I have to.”

A pause stretches between them. Geralt looks up and his eyes are uncertain. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I…” Jaskier lets himself trail off a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I was afraid.”

Geralt looks as though he’s been struck and Jaskier is quick to correct the awful thought that must be in his head.

“Not  _ of  _ you, of– of losing you.” Jaskier feels his chest tighten but he pushes on. “I thought you would hate me, Geralt, I thought– I thought you would want nothing to do with me if you knew. I was afraid you would look at me and see a monster, and I– I couldn’t bear to see you look at me that way.”

Jaskier’s vision blurs with unshed tears and he breathes deeply against them. Geralt, to his delight and surprise, reaches across the distance between them and cradles Jaskier’s jaw with both hands, brushing his cheeks gently with his thumbs. Their noses nearly touch this way.

“There is nothing monstrous about you,” Geralt asserts, soft but firm.

“I have horns, darling.”

“You’re eccentric.” Geralt says it with all airs of seriousness and Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

Geralt crosses the last breath of space between them and kisses his smile, slow and sweet.

“You know what this means?” Jaskier asks when they part, a grin on his face. Geralt gives a ponderous hum in reply. “No more self-deprecating nonsense from you anymore. I won’t have it. If this,” Jaskier runs a shiny white claw up Geralt’s forearm, “isn’t monstrous, then neither is anything you have going on.”

Geralt gives him a dubious look. “We’ll see about that.”

“We will not see, I–” Geralt cuts him off with his lips, and Jaskier is anything but through with this conversation, but he lets himself be distracted.

Geralt deepens the kiss and begins to lean him ever so slowly down to the bed. Jaskier gropes the covers beside him for his ring, but Geralt captures his hand and twines their fingers together.

“You don’t have to wear it,” he says against Jaskier’s lips, voice low and breathy. 

Jaskier stares blankly up at him for a moment, and all he can think is how absolutely, unfathomably in love he is with this man. He’s speechless for once, but Geralt doesn’t need him to say anything. Jaskier is enough as he is.  _ Exactly  _ as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	24. island

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 24: memory loss  
> tags: older jaskier, early onset alzheimers, hurt/comfort

Jaskier was having a really, really good day.

He woke early this morning in high spirits, a wide smile deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth from years of similar joy. Geralt made a shit joke about stamina as Jaskier climbed on top of him and the bard pinched his side playfully. “I’m fifty-six, not an octogenarian you oaf,” he said. 

They eventually drug themselves out of bed and Jaskier prepared his usual breakfast; a bit of fruit and a thick slice of bread–his own today, not the stuff from the market. He’d taken to baking their bread himself as of late. It was dreadful at first, truth be told, but he got the hang of it after a few tries. It was quite good now if a bit dense. 

Geralt suggested that they eat in the yard, so they packed up the food into a basket and pulled an old quilt from the closet, and set it all up outside in the grass. On mornings like this, their little corner of the world was like a slice of paradise. The long grass waved in a warm breeze which brought with it the salty smell of the sea from below. Perched on a short cliff, they could see the blue water from the yard.

Jaskier chattered all through their impromptu picnic about idle things. The improvement of his baking skills and the things they needed from market next week. A letter he received from an old school friend and what he intended to write back. Geralt just listened, offering the occasional hum when necessary.

There was nothing particularly pressing for them to attend to today; such was a life of retirement. They let breakfast lag on for entirely too long and took their dear sweet time tidying away the mess. Once that was done, Geralt found himself finishing up a letter to Ciri while Jaskier read in his cushy chair by the window.

Not once all the while did Jaskier pause awkwardly between words as if they’d escaped his mind. Not once did he stop in the middle of a room and look around nervously as if he was searching for something and didn’t know what. Not once did he repeat himself as if he had no recollection of having said the same thing only moments before.

It was a good day. A damn-near perfect day so far as Geralt was concerned. Then there was a knock at the door.

Jaskier was closer to the door and hopped up to answer before Geralt could stop him. It was only Jord from up the road looking to borrow their ax, for his had broken this morning and he had firewood to split. 

“Of course, Jord!” said Jaskier, nice and neighborly. “I’ll fetch it for you, it’s just by the… by…” Jaskier’s face dropped like a stone he stammered.  _ Fuck _ .

Geralt nudged Jaskier gently out of the way just as Jord was beginning to look very concerned indeed and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He got the ax from their own woodpile beneath one of Jaskier’s prized flower boxes and sent Jord on his way. What he saw upon returning inside tore at his heart.

Jaskier stood in the center of the sitting room wringing his hands looking so confused and flustered, almost to the point of fear. Large shifts in his routine always did this; unexpected visitors, long trips away from the house, even especially bad weather. It disturbed whatever this malady that plagued him was and muddled his thoughts, turning a good day into a bad one in a matter of minutes.

Jaskier’s eyes landed on Geralt and relief visibly flooded him, but he looked no less troubled. Geralt approached him slowly, waiting for Jaskier to reach out before folding him up in his arms. He’d learned to be cautious; sometimes his touch did more harm than good if it was too sudden.

“It’s alright,” Geralt murmured, running a hand up and down Jaskier’s back in slow, soothing motions. 

They stayed that way a long while, Geralt waiting patiently for Jaskier to return from the island in his mind while the bard clutched his shirt like a lifeline. This was one of Jaskier’s more extreme reactions; usually, he could snap himself back with relative ease. But sometimes it was just too much. Sometimes the depth of his confusion hit him hard and it was all he could do to stay afloat.

“I hate this,” Jaskier hissed, his words muffled by Geralt’s shoulder. “I hate this so fucking much.”

“I know you do.” 

Geralt hated it too. He hated seeing Jaskier so upset and unsure. He hated watching him unravel before his eyes. He hated how quickly Jaskier’s own mind could turn on him. Yennefer said it was common for aging people, this ailment, though Jaskier’s was certainly an advanced case. She’d done what she could to slow it down, but she couldn’t stop it. 

Someday sooner than Geralt cared to imagine, Jaskier would forget him and all their adventures. He would forget his songs and his poems, his own bloody name. Already, he struggled to recall details he once rattled off without pause. It would only get worse from here. And Geralt would have to watch.

“We’ll be alright, won’t we Geralt?” Jaskier asked, barely audible this time.

Geralt held him tighter, turning his face to nuzzle Jaskier's hair. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	25. happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 25 (alt. 10): "please come back"  
> tags: post-mountain angst

Nearly a year passes after the dragon hunt before Geralt sees Jaskier again. He’s in a seedy, rundown excuse for a tavern polishing off his third ale; he wouldn’t usually splurge for three and a hot meal, but the pay on his last contract filled his pockets nicely and he's in the mood to drink. 

He hears the doors open and close. Then agreeable rumbles and few cheers ring out from the crowd. Geralt looks up to see a space clearing at the front of the room, and at its center, a face he would know anywhere.

Jaskier looks good. Bright and warm as always, sporting a smile that could charm the devil. He’s decked out in blue tonight. Geralt remembers this ensemble, had been there when Jaskier bought it. "Matches my eyes, don’t you think?" he’d said. It did match his eyes. Perfectly.

Geralt sinks back in his seat and yanks his hood over his face. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice him, greeting the crowd and jumping right into one of his raunchier tunes. The tavern patrons lap it up, stamping their feet and slamming their tankards on the tables to the beat.

What would Jaskier say if Geralt approached him? Would he be angry? Hurt? Or perhaps he would pretend not to know Geralt at all; he could be petty that way. 

Geralt should talk to him. _ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it… please come back. _

Jaskier hops up on a table and does a little spin. He looks happy. Geralt thinks of his face the last time they spoke, pained as if he’d been struck. There's no sign of that now. No sign of the marks Geralt left on him.

Geralt secures his hood and rises from the table, shouldering his bag. He is careful to keep to the edges of the room on his way to the door. He has no right to intrude on Jaskier now. The bard is better off without him anyway.

He doesn’t look back before he lets the tavern's battered door slam behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	26. okay day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 26: recovery  
> tags: continuation of days 6 and 18 but can stand alone, depression, ptsd, hurt/comfort

Jaskier is getting better. Geralt has to remind himself of the fact a few times a day now. It’s so hard to see, especially on bad days, but it’s happening.

Being at Kaer Morhen is helping, he thinks. The stability of being in one place for a while is doing Jaskier good, giving him time to settle and learn to be comfortable again. And it’s quiet here, for the most part. Jaskier had never been the type of person to enjoy silence before, but it puts him at ease as of late.

Today was an okay sort of day. Not good, not bad, just okay.

Jaskier spent it wandering through the halls, a preferred activity of his since they arrived. Geralt offered to walk about with him, but he wanted to be alone, which was fine. It was. Geralt knows his hovering doesn’t help, so he’s made himself fine with Jaskier wanting to be alone. Who would have thought Geralt would be the clingy one?

Geralt only bothered him to offer meals, but Jaskier didn’t want much to eat today. Just a bit of cheese around midday and Geralt had a hunch that he only took it to get him to leave. He worried when Jaskier didn’t eat, and his worry set the bard’s teeth on edge, though he never said so.

That was one of the times Geralt had to remind himself that Jaskier was getting better. Walking alone and eating crumbs is what passes for a middling day now, and even that is leaps and bounds better than what it could be. An okay day is always better than a bad one.

Their first few weeks at the keep were riddled with bad days. Jaskier woke up with dreams all through the night, screaming more often than not, and it took forever to calm him back down. Morning came shedding light on the bruise-like spots under their eyes, and Jaskier would stay in bed. Not to sleep, just to stare up at the ceiling with an empty expression.

Geralt left and returned with breakfast that would lay untouched until he took it away again hours later. Eskel all but forced him to nap in the afternoons, offering to keep an ear out just in case. When Geralt came back, he found Jaskier in the same position he’d left him or in a chair staring blankly out the window if he was lucky.

They fought a lot those first weeks. After a few days of Jaskier refusing to get out of bed or eat more than a nibble of bread, Geralt would try to coax him up. Jaskier would snap at him, and Geralt would snap back, and it all ended in screaming and slammed doors. Geralt would come back after a few hours of sparring his frustration away, and they would make up, but it repeated a few days later.

It was the only time in all of this that Geralt really started to lose hope. He was exhausted beyond words, stretched to his limit from the arguing and the looks from the others and watching Jaskier suffer in his own mind every day. His muddled brain started to convince him that it would always be this way, that Jaskier was beyond any help he could provide, that what they had was broken beyond repair.

But then Jaskier got up. He drank thin broth and stretched his legs wandering the halls. Geralt did his best not to gape, though the others were less successful at hiding their shock. It was the first okay day. Geralt learned to treasure them.

As they grew more frequent, Geralt found himself in the same place as before, sick of stagnation and wishing for more. He had to remind himself how huge Jaskier’s progress was. Remind himself that getting out of bed was a battle won, even when it didn’t feel that way. That walking aimlessly about the keep was a triumph worthy of parades.

This middling, okay day ends as they usually do. Geralt returns to their room after supper to find Jaskier sat up in bed reading by candlelight. It’s the same book he’s been reading for more than a fortnight now. Some days he just stares at the same page for hours, but it looks like he’s made it through at least a chapter tonight. 

Jaskier folds down the page to mark his place as Geralt approaches and meets his eye with a smile. It’s small, hardly more than an upturn of lips, but it’s genuine. Geralt thinks of his big smiles, the ones that round his cheeks and squint his eyes, and makes a private vow to see one each day when all this is behind them.

They don’t speak while Geralt undresses and climbs into bed, but that’s alright. Reading and a smile are more than enough for now. Once Geralt is situated under the furs, Jaskier snuggles close, leaving his candle burning. He likes to have at least one lit while they sleep, even with the fireplace roaring.

Geralt barely has to move at all to press a kiss goodnight to Jaskier’s forehead and receives one in return to his jaw. He doesn’t try to sleep right away, listening instead to Jaskier’s breath as it gradually slows and sleep claims him.

Tomorrow might be a good day, or just okay, or maybe even a bad one. It doesn’t matter because there are more okay days than bad now, and someday there will be more good days than the others combined.

Jaskier is getting better. It’s slow and unsteady, but sure as the sun rises and sets each day, Geralt will see his smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	27. don't you dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 27 (alt. 6): "don't try to pin this on me"  
> tags: alternate mountain scene

The wind whips around them, the only sound Jaskier can hear besides the beating of his own heart. Geralt’s words still hang in the air.

_ If life could give me one blessing… _

First, Jaskier is shocked. Geralt has yelled at him before plenty of times, but never with this kind of fury, this kind of  _ venom _ . It strikes him hard and his mind struggles to process it all, as if a rug has been pulled out from under him.

Then, Jaskier is sad. Hurt. Because this was always going to happen, wasn’t it? He was always too much and sooner or later, it came back to haunt him. And maybe he should have been prepared, should have seen it coming, but he didn’t and it ached in his chest.

The feelings swirl around inside him until something thick and burning curls up in his gut and rises through his chest. Jaskier is angry.

Angry because after all this time, after all they’ve been through,  _ this  _ is what he is worth to Geralt? Twenty years by his side, half of Jaskier’s  _ life _ , and he could dismiss it so easily?

Angry because he was only trying to  _ help _ , and maybe he was too much sometimes and fumbled around and said the wrong thing but it was only ever in service of what he thought was best. He deserved credit for that at the very least.

Angry because this wasn’t  _ fair _ . Maybe the mess with the djinn was on him, fine. But he hardly forced Geralt to claim the bloody Law of Surprise not moments after they’d seen its consequences and he definitely tried to stop them from trekking up this fucking mountain. 

“You absolute fucking  _ bastard  _ of a Witcher,” Jaskier sputters. Geralt turns back to look at him, shock of his own gripping his features. “I didn’t twist your arm and make you come here! Be sad and pathetic all you want, but don’t you dare try to pin this on me.”

Geralt opens his mouth as if he means to speak, but Jaskier doesn’t give him the chance. He spins on his heel and stomps off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t look back. He wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


	28. peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using [this prompt list](https://febuwhump.tumblr.com/post/638041380836540416/febuwhump-2021-prompts-the-prompt-list-is-out)  
> day 28: "you have to let me go"  
> tags: ahh can you believe it's the last day!!!, major character death (not graphic), ghosts/spirits, hurt/comfort

It is probably in poor taste to spend a great deal of time imagining how your loved ones are going to die. Geralt has never been able to kick the habit. Understandable, he thought, given his line of work. Death stalked his steps and always would; such was the nature of the path he walked. The people he loved paid the price for walking beside him.

Jaskier’s death has plagued him the most over the years. His foolish, foppish, clumsy, careless, danger magnet of a bard. His fellow wolves were Witchers; their deaths were disparagingly predictable. Yennefer was a sorceress; she’d probably outlive him a dozen times over. Ciri was, well,  _ Ciri _ . But Jaskier was only human. Frustratingly, fragilely human. His death was always almost certain to preclude Geralt’s, and as for its cause, the possibilities were endless.

Perhaps his insatiable sex drive would get him. He’d fuck one nobleman’s wife too many and lose his head for it. Or a fisherman’s daughter. Or a blacksmith’s son. They were all equally likely in truth. 

Or maybe his infernal mouth would get him into trouble it couldn’t get him out of. Jaskier always did have a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person. Sometimes he just did it for a good laugh, the bastard. 

Could be that just being human would do him in. He could eat a bad cut of beef, or smack his head on a rock, or drown during a drunken swim, or be bitten by a snake, or get run over by a speeding carriage. Humans died absurdly mundane and at times downright stupid deaths all the time. 

Even so, Geralt always knew that the most likely course of events would be for Jaskier to die at his side, in his care. Jaskier would get too close or move too slowly and Geralt wouldn’t be able to save him. They’d had more close calls than Geralt would ever care to admit and the odds of it increased ten-fold with every year that passed. 

Geralt made his peace with that fact a long time ago. He’d tried to stop Jaskier for his own good more times than he could count, but it never made a lick of difference. Geralt couldn’t make his choices for him and he’d grown begrudgingly fond of him over time. Fondness turned to friendship, and with it came love. What kind, they never felt any need to say, but it was there and more real than either of them.

In the end, Jaskier surprised him as only he could. He didn’t die in any of the ways Geralt’s morbid mind cooked up for him. He went peacefully, at a well-deserved age surrounded by friends with a teaspoon of poppy milk to ease the way. Geralt didn’t make it in time to say goodbye.

It was an illness, the same slow-going one that took Jaskier’s father and his father before him. He’d known he was sick a long while before he told anyone, even Geralt. Didn’t want to spoil what time he had left, or so he said. Even through obvious weakness and pain, he assured Geralt that he was content, that he’d lived a good life. That he’d loved and been loved in return which was more than any man could ask for. He sent Geralt back to the path with a promise to summon him before things were too terribly bad.

But the sickness burned through him more quickly than any of his physicians could predict. By the time a bird reached Geralt, it was too late. He rode hard for three days and three nights, but all he could do was hold his bard’s pale hand as he drew his last breaths. He didn’t stay for the burial. He snatched a few keepsakes before he left town, including Jaskier's lute.

Geralt found Ciri first. She cried into his shoulder and he rubbed her back gently until she calmed down. They caught up and reminisced, trading tales about their ridiculous bard. There were more tears and even more laughter, but a small part of Geralt felt at peace when they parted. 

He left her with a keepsake; one of Jaskier’s old songbooks, the one he’d carried when he first met Ciri. She’d helped him compose a few of the rhymes in those pages and drawn him a funny picture or two. She clutched the little leatherbound journal to her chest and disappeared through a glowing portal.

Yennefer had already heard the news by the time Geralt managed to find her. She offered her condolences and he accepted them with a low hum. He presented her with one of Jaskier’s rings, an intricate silver band with a large violet gemstone. He always used to say that it reminded him of her. 

Geralt never did understand the odd blend of catty pettiness and profound respect that existed between Jaskier and Yennefer, but he knew there was some kind of tenderness there; something like friendship, though neither of them would dare admit it. Yennefer took the ring with a sad smile and slipped on her middle finger. She didn’t cry, that wasn’t like her, but Geralt saw a sheen in her eyes and the barely perceptible tremble of her lip for just a second.

Yennefer asked him to stay awhile, but he declined. He wasn’t ready to stop moving just yet. Stillness brought too many thoughts he didn’t care to contend with. He rode away the next morning with no particular direction in mind and the elven lute strapped to his saddle. 

Weeks turned to months and Geralt kept riding. He didn't stop for more than a day or so if he could help it. And always with the lute in his possession, unconcerned for its bulk and impracticality. He considered selling it or gifting it or simply returning it to the elves, but as soon as such thoughts came, they soured in his mind and turned his stomach. It was all he had of Jaskier now and he couldn’t seem to part with it.

Green of summer gave way to the colors of autumn before long. It was on one of these early fall evenings when his campfire was just becoming necessary for warmth as well as food, that Geralt heard it the first time. Low and sweet, barely audible even to his ears, someone sang. It was only the span of a note, maybe two, then gone. 

Geralt pricked his ears and listened close for a long while, but the voice did not return that night, nor the next. It was more than a week before he heard it again, just as soft as before. He could hardly be sure it was even real, that he hadn’t imagined it all. But it came again a few nights later. And again.

Samhain was approaching, Geralt knew, but he’d never put much stock in such things as the veil and life beyond. And yet, as the day grew nearer, the voice grew louder and more frequent. Within a week of the feast day, Geralt was all but certain he’d heard his own name called out in the night.

When Samhain finally did arrive, Geralt was ready; fully armed and armored with potions well-stocked. He let his fire burn low and the darkness encroach upon him, broken only by a bright moon above. He waited.

“ _ Geralt _ ,” called the voice, clear as day and unmistakable. Geralt turned this way and that in search of some sort of entity, but he was alone in the clearing. It called again, “Geralt.”

Geralt froze in his tracks and his blood ran cold. He knew that voice.  _ Intimately _ , he knew that voice, better than his own. He turned around painfully slowly and his sword slipped out of his hand to the forest floor.

_ Jaskier _ . 

He was pale white and transparent like water, but it was him. Young as the day Geralt first met him, but his eyes reflected the joys and pains of every day he’d lived. He smiled and Geralt knew better than to approach such a specter unarmed, but the only part of his mind that functioned at the moment was the bit that ached for his bard. Jaskier held out a hand for him and Geralt reached out, but his arm fell right through. The only evidence it was there at all was the gust of cold Geralt felt even through his glove.

Jaskier’s smile turned sad. “Hello, Geralt,” he said. His voice was unchanged, exactly how Geralt remembered it.

“W– what are you doing here?” It was all he could think to say.

“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” Jaskier in life would have strung out the sentence into a dozen, but this Jaskier seemed content with the words as they were. There was none of his usual restless energy now. He was calm. At peace.

Geralt swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “I miss you,” he croaked.

Jaskier stepped closer into Geralt’s space. Close enough for Geralt to feel his warmth, had there been any to feel. “I know you do, my love. But I’m afraid our time has run out. You have to let me go.”

“I can’t."

“Yes you can,” said Jaskier with ironclad certainty. “You’re so strong, even stronger than you know. You have so much life still to live.”

Geralt watched as Jaskier rested a hand on his chest. It felt like ice against him through all the leather and cloth, but he would bear it forever if only he could. Jaskier smiled again, smaller now, something just for them.

“I have no regrets.” Jaskier’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You were the joy of my life and to love you was a privilege. There isn’t a single day I would change. Remember that, and let me rest.”

Geralt stared at the specter and tried to commit Jaskier’s face to memory exactly as it was; completely content, no pain or wear from the world. His last glimpse. He couldn’t bring himself to speak but he nodded his acceptance. 

Jaskier began to fade almost immediately, slipping away like sand through Geralt’s fingers. There was nothing left but a faint glow in the air, but Geralt still heard him, low and sweet, “Goodbye, Geralt.”

Geralt was alone again when he replied through hitched breath. “Goodbye.”

He burned the lute at daybreak. 

There was a field of wildflowers nearby and he picked as many as he could; daisies, dandelions, primroses, wild carrots, and every buttercup he saw. He filled the instrument with the flowers and stuck what was left under the strings along its neck. He removed a single string before he put it all to the flame and wrapped it tightly around the hilt of his sword, just above the crossguard and Renfri’s broach. 

Geralt stood vigil until there was nothing left but ash. His chest ached much in the same way it had for months now, but it was easier somehow to bear. He felt like he had after he and Ciri had talked. 

At peace. 

~

He made his way back to Jaskier’s resting place eventually. They buried him on a hill covered in wildflowers with the wind and the sun and the sky above him. From there, even human ears could hear the crash of waves in the distance. He always had loved the coast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


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